


Damn

by The_Ravenous



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Cross fandom, Fantasy, Magic, Sex, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:20:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 86,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21579793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Ravenous/pseuds/The_Ravenous
Summary: Geralt was on the run — as usual — only Triss’ hastily drawn portal desynchronized when he went to use it.Now he’s a Witcher in Thedas.
Relationships: Female Amell/Leliana (Dragon Age), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Male Hawke/Isabela
Comments: 74
Kudos: 116





	1. Chapter 1

“IT WAS A DUMB PLAN!,” he yells while sprinting, trying not to outpace the redhead hustling to keep up.

“NO! DUMB WAS TRYING TO INTIMIDATE AN ENTIRE CAMP OF SOLDIERS!”

“THOSE IDIOTS MADE THEIR BED WHEN THEY REJECTED YOUR OFFER THE FIRST TIME!”

“THEY NEEDED ANOTHER…,” Triss argues but yelps out an “EEE!” when an arrow narrowly misses her head. Running through the field, cutting through the golden wheat, arrows nip at their heels. Armor jingling, Geralt twists about, makes a gesture, and rasps out “Igni!” at the crops behind — a bloom a flames, the field catches fire, hopefully proving a decent enough obstacle to the Redanians on their tail.

“KEEP RUNNING, I’LL TRY TO HOLD THEM OFF,” Geralt attempts to persuade the mage as his whips free his steel longsword and slows his gait.

“YENNEFER WILL KILL ME!” Triss fires back, already swiping her fingers before her, burning a ring of orange through the very air itself, sparks flying off its border rim, “I’M MAKING A PORTAL, GERALT!”

“NO. NO PORTALS,” he protests, his throat full of gravel and smoke, but Triss’ reply is “IT’S PERFECTLY SAFE!” and with an army’s volley of arrows soaring into the sky, she cries out“GERALT!!” in distress. Seeing that swarm of pointed tips arcing high above, realizing how impotent his argument is in the face of such danger, he hisses “Damnit” and takes off at a dead sprint, barreling toward the hole in space time — confident he’s coming, Triss finally hops through — his wolfhead medallion rattling around his neck, he dives through as arrows pierce leg meat.

Falling through the wavering ring of orange, old Geralt comes crashing down into a tent in the center of a town, the whole thing giving way and tearing under him. “What?” rasps the silver haired man, his voice full of char and smoke, as he twists and yanks himself free from the mess, “Where th’ hell did you put us, Triss?!”

Calling out to his red head sorceress though, it yields no answers, but only goes to alert a nearby squad of soldiers..

An arrow tears through the portal, nearly pegging him in the shoulder.

Then another and a third, nailing him in the maille and leather but otherwise doing zero damage.

_Damnit!!_

...but he’s still caught up in the shredded remains of tent, as lame a net as there ever was, he can only watch helplessly as the portals winks closed above, both saving and trapping him only further...

One less angry mob of Redanians, at least. That’s a plus.

As they surround Geralt, their spears and swords cutting off his means of egress, he irritably groans “I hate portals” and slowly raises his hands in weary surrender…  
  


**______**

Though he’d been napping earlier, some manner of great earthshaking awakened him, the sound and blast rattling the jail down to its foundation, to the point he thought it’d all come tumbling down on him.

But it didn’t.

He wouldn’t get his personal mausoleum this day.

But that was hours ago…

Damp, dim, cold, lichen veining through the mortar, this dungeon is pretty much like all the rest he’d ever had the pleasure of staying in. Stripped of his gear, his potions, his _swords_ , he lazes about in his cell, propped up on an overturned metal bucket — likely the shitter — just ambling through his mental checklist…

_Ample living space.._

He notes the stale hunk of bread gathering mold in the corner…

_Fine dining…_

A dirty mouse skitters across the stone floor, uncaring of Geralt’s residence..

_Decent company..._

Though the other cells remain empty, his highly keen senses can’t help but pick up the numerous pacings and scrapings of shoes in whatever building stands above this dank hole, even their panic carries down the passageway all the way to his ears.

At least his captors were kind enough to remove the arrows in his left leg before tossing him down here. Shows real hospitality that even in a crisis, they’re willing to show that sort of care. Poking gingerly at what would be a more grievous injury for a normal human, drawing just the slightest touches of blood, he sighs wearily, “huhhhh, how do I always find myself in these situations?”

But no sooner asked do his cat eyes clock a movement in the dark of the hallway beyond the jail door — low chandeliers swing, caught on a fresh wind — and another group of soldiers come tromping along, hauling some unconscious elf lady.

And they set to chaining her in the middle of the dungeon like a dog.

“Set the bolts! Chain the blasted knife ear,” one demands as they huddle around, some with their weapons drawn as if she’d attack at any moment.

“Hey boys, saw the banner,” Geralt tries to break the ice, “some sorta Nilfgaardian offshoot?”

But they all continue on, ignoring him while yelling “Do it right or the Commander will have our heads!”

“Hello?”

“Don’t want near her dark magics!,” one worries but another, doing what the rest won’t, barks “then move your bloody arse” and sees to shackling the lass, collaring and cuffing all he can.

“Does the Emperor have some new reason to be pissed?,” Geralt grumbles, hoping for any takers but no sooner locked in, the girl heavily secured, do they retreat, almost fearful of the waif.

Heavy doors crash shut, jailer keys clanging as bolts lock into place.

The scuffle of escape, steel and cheap iron on brick, back up the stairs from whence they came.

And then the why of it — her hand crackles, flashing the squalor about her with a surge of green, blinding the Witcher for a moment. Squinting against the light, it’s source sputtering and whining without pattern, Geralt grumbles out “well shit. It’s another witch hunt.”


	2. Chapter 2

No outside light, no way to tell the time. Only thing indicative is that there’s been two rotations of guards posted out in the hallway.

He can hear the rise and fall of their leather clad chests, one of whom has a cold, there’s a quiet stuttering to his exhales…

There’s the crackle of the wall mounted torches, the air greasy from their output.

...And then there’s that elf girl in chains at the center — still out of it — and whatever her deal is, she’s not having a good time. Nightmares maybe? She keeps crying out in a tongue he hasn’t heard before…

 _‘Ear obb ah loss?,’_ he breaks it down phonetically, ‘ _maybe a regional colloquialism?_

…kicking, tossing and turning on the stone floor she’s bound to, her light show just keeps getting angrier, spitting and hissing from between tightly clenched digits…

“DIN’AN.”

_Din…_

_“_ HALANI!,” she screams, still lost to the upset and throws of whatever unconscious hell she’s suffering.

 _‘Yeah, doesn’t sound like Elder Speech... so it’s a different language then,’_ Geralt reconsiders having heard enough of her pleas but deciding to take a stab at helping, anything to quiet her mind, he slips an arm through the bars. Subtle, not wanting to alert the men posted, Geralt tries to take pity — drawing an inverted triangle in the air — he whispers “axii “ in the hopes she’ll calm, that whatever she’s fighting will be warded off for a spell...

She shudders, twisting and clenching her bright hand…

“Hal…halani…”

 _‘It work?,’_ he ponders...

“No…n-no,” her crying calms to a low hiss. Still in pain though, her fingers fidget and claw at the air and Geralt’s left mentally groaning ‘ _Never was my best sign.’_

Didn’t accomplish anything.

High above, hinges creak, yearning for warmth and oil.

‘ _More coming_ ,’ he acknowledges. The falling of two sets of feet approaching— one with leather boots and the other, barefoot by the soft padding sound of it. The more heavily armored one, she brusquely demands “Open it!” at which the sick guard hastily obliges, only somewhat fumbling with the keys by the sound it.

The lock bolt scrapes in its track, craving a fresh coat of oil. With the door swinging wide, a bald elf man...

_He’s not in chains._

…immediately drops to his knees, waving a hand over the female prisoner, uttering “You should have brought me sooner, Seeker. She could have…”

“Do not lecture me, apostate,” the stern woman demands, her eyes narrowed, distrusting of her companion it would seem. Short, black hair, blacker armor with some Nilfgaardian-esque looking insignia, her dominant hand grips at her sword hilt, ready to strike. At whom, though, she seems likely to dole out punishment to both.

“Seeker,” the bald one continues…

 _‘There’s that word again,’_ Geralt quietly studies his captors, leering with cat’s eyes through the dark of his cell, unmoving.

“…for whatever reason she has this mark upon her, whatever her connection to that catastrophe may be, she’s gravely ill. With every passing minute, the mark grows as does the…”

“Yes, I _get_ it. The prisoner may be the key to understanding it,” the woman sneers most derisively, “thank you for stating the obvious. Stabilize her or else — do you _get_ that?”

Wordless, the elf glares over his shoulder up at this Seeker, obvious in his irritation but thinks better of his challenge. Instead, he returns his care to the prisoner, his every prod and poke eliciting a wince from the girl.

 _‘Just watch and learn,_ ’ Geralt reminds himself as the room fluctuates between angry greens and dim torchlight. He’s more interested in watching them than talking anyway. He can wait. Just shy of a century old and being a hunter, he’s gotten good at waiting. Patience is key in his profession.

Beading sweat.

Shrunken pupils.

 _‘He’s stressed,’_ Geralt notes of the bald elf as he sticks the lighthouse of a scar with a number of needles, trying to ferret out its secrets while under the shadow of a guillotine given human form. An hour passes, he’s doing everything he can to slow the spread. The knightly woman, whatever a Seeker is, she’s pacing, furious but keeping it barely contained. Well, she’s doing fine until she looks Geralt’s way and realizes he’s been watching all along. Smashing her gauntlet across the bars, she spits “YOU. You will answer for your crimes. Do not think yourself forgotten.”

A hint of smirk teases the edge of his lips as he cooly looks upon her, his only reply a casual “Ready when you are.”

“You think you are funny,” she dares the white haired man before backtracking to keep watch over her apostate hostage.

Under his breath, Geralt grumbles “that’s me. The funny witcher.”

**______**

  
  


Two days if he had to guess.

Two days of guard rotations, of his captors stressing over this waif with the glowing hand, of the bald elf working nonstop to the point of exhaustion all to slow its spread.

For an allegedly unknown magic, that elf guy sure seemed to know a great deal…

But eventually she’s stabilized — to an extent — and they force the bald one to leave, shoving at him and hurling threats. The elf woman’s little slice of light isn’t screaming. That’s a new development.

Finally her chains rattle and not from thrashing. She’s waking. Gingery tugging at restraints she’s only now noticing, she asks no one in particular “Where am I?” in a heavy brogue, “Whit's happening?! whit's this!? whit...” but narrowing her eyes, seeing she’s not alone, she questions “who?…no, whit are you?”

Rising from his cot and slowly rolling his neck, he leans against the bars to step into the torchlight as he answers “Geralt. Witcher” but before he can ask a question of his own, she questions back “a witch?”

“Witcher,” he grumbles.

“I don’t know whit tha’ is,” she comments, confused, still in a daze, but that’s all the time they have for now — the guards have noticed and one starts shouting “SEEKER! SEEKER PENTAGHAST! SHE’S AWAKE!!”

In no time at all, people descend the stairs, doors are unbolted, and that same armored fury of a woman stalks into the room but with another human following behind. Red hair tucked carefully beneath her dark blue cowl, she sticks to the shadows herself, wanting to see over being seen…

But that Seeker, she circles her elf prey like a siren in the waters off Skellige as she demands “Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you.” All vitriol, just wanting any reason to cut the elf down, she further spits “The Conclave is destroyed. EVERYONE who attended is dead…” and then stepping into the light, to truly lock eyes with her target, to instill proper fear, she adds “everyone, except _you_.”

Terrified but keeping her lips zipped, the elf woman just glares back defiantly until the Seeker grabs at her wrist, forcing the elf to stare at the green cut of light, and demands “EXPLAIN THIS.”

“I-I don’t know whit this is!,” she cries back as light hisses and pulses but the Seeker lunges at the elf, dragging her off the floor and screams “YOU'RE LYING.”

Fortunately, cooler heads prevail when the cowled woman pulls her companion back, gently reminding “we need her, Cassandra.”

Dropping the elf, regaining some composure, this Cassandra woman continues her stalking, circling, only it’s then her cowled partner levels her eyes at Geralt in his cage...

“We know you two are working together. You were just a distraction, to keep Divine Justinia’s most trusted away and focused on you as this elf set about destroying the conclave” the cowled one states as if they were the facts.

“Quite the narrative you’ve established,” Geralt chuckles from his cell, “too bad you’re wrong.”

Cowl, she takes a second stab, stating “both of your magics are too obvious.”

“I’m not magic,” Geralt’s quick to dismiss, “and being here wasn’t my choice…”

“We don’t believe you,” that Cassandra woman sneers to which her cowled friend adds “we always have a choice. You just chose the wrong side.”

Excited but confused, the elf suddenly stammers out “A WOMAN! I remember runnin’ an’ then, there was a woman!,” recalling some snippet of her past. Cassandra and Cowl, they whip back on the elf, both asking her “a woman?”

Huddling up, Cassandra whispers “witnesses claim there was a woman behind her in the rift…” so only her partner should hear. To that, they just eye one another, communicating silently until Cowl nods out “we need her Cassandra.”

“But not him,” the Seeker speaks of Geralt.

“I agree. But her... I will meet you both at the forward camp” Cowl asserts and Cassandra nods in agreement though her brow furrows all the more, her steely gaze becoming set. With a wave of her gauntlet, a team of soldiers funnel in and go about undoing the elf girl’s chains, shackles, and collar, dragging her with them, her feet barely touching the ground...  
  
Just before vanishing out that dungeon door, Cassandra leers back at him, the Witcher in his cell.

No last words for him.

Doors slam shut, locks engage.

“This bodes well,” Geralt rasps before plopping his head back down against his awful cot.

A skitter and squeak, the mouse darts across the room, sniffing the air.

“Least I have some decent company again.”

It squeaks again, cautiously slipping under his bars and though glancing his way, it creeps to his food dish and takes to nibbling on a stale bread end.

“Wow,” he rasps sarcastically, “what a Dandelion thing to do.”

For hours more, it’s more of the same, the ambient freaks and shuffling, all until a tremendous boom shakes the very mountains. So powerful, it rattles everything in this hole, knocking a few braziers over, embers raining down across the floor.

_Seems to be a trend around here..._


	3. Chapter 3

Best guess, it’s been a full day since they hauled that elf out without so much as a word of why. Been several guard rotations more when yet again, the heavy door to the dungeon yawns, swinging wide as Cowl slips in.

‘ _Didn’t hear her steps_ ,’ Geralt considers interesting as he drums his fingers against the bars.

“Who do you work for?,” the sneak demands, keeping just out of the torch light’s reach as she had prior.   
  
‘... _she doesn’t know I can see just fine,_ ’ Geralt considers, _‘clearly doesn’t know me.’_ His cat eyes cutting through the dim and dank, he takes a moment to study the soft and beautiful features of her pale face. A moment more and he answers “Whoever’s paying” rather noncommittally.

“A mercenary?” the woman picks apart what he’s said, her tone taking a more sinister edge, “or an assassin.”

_She’s reaching. Nothing solid._

“No,” he groans, breathing out a sigh of exasperation before explaining “that was the Cat School. Guess a few Snakes as well.”

“Explain.”

“No. It’s your turn,” he argues but Cowl disagrees, “I am not the one in a cage.”

“hmmm,” he grumbles, leering at her and though she edges closer to the bars, she questions “Some manner of demon?”

“Huh?”

“You are an abomination?”

“How original.”

“Answer me.”

“Son of a...look, Not a demon. Not possessed. Despite what most angry mobs might tell you, not a monster.”

“So it’s purely coincidence you burst into our camp the same day the Conclave exploded?,” her voice takes a hard edge but all Geralt fires back is a shrug. Irritated but taking a breath, she redirects, coming at him from another angle as she states “You had a number of odd items when we arrested you.”

“For killing monsters.”

“Incendiary devices…”

“For killing monsters”

“Vials we can only assume to be poison.”

“For killing monsters,” Geralt groans for the third time.

Annoyed, she states “and two swords, one steel and one ornamental…”

“Silver, not ornamental, and it’s for…” Geralt corrects but she assumes his answer, saying “Killing monsters?,” 

“Mhmm.”

“Hmmm”

“Mmmmmm,” he rumbles just a bit louder, not content to waste anytime in bothering his captors.

“The Herald claims not to know you…” she states — taking that as cue to annoy, knowing well she doesn’t mean what he’s about to ask back, Geralt does so anyway, firing off “Harald who? Featherbuns? Harald the Cripple? Gord? I only know so many Haralds”

“No..what? Now you are purposefully speaking nonsense.”

Quirking an eyebrow, he’s pleased but ultimately tired at this back exchange. Propped against the bars to his cell, he scratches at the back of his hand a moment, tracing a bite scar that still irritates him, before saying “Look, cut the shit. Why am I in here? What’re the charges?”

Apparently having overheard, Cassandra barges in, citing “You have been charged with spying, use of foreign magic, destruction of Inquisition goods, and most grievous, you are under arrest on suspicion of having a hand in the Death of the Divine!”

Flipping his fingers out as if counting off, he groans out “No. No. Falling doesn’t count as intent and what god did I allegedly kill?”

Cassandra glares daggers when she spits “he is mocking us” as yet another person pads into the room. From the doorway, the bald elf from before, he calls out “Ahem, a moment?” and both women withdraw into the halfway. They’re whispering but it’s loud enough for Geralt, especially in this echo chamber.

“...I observed him while he slept as you instructed… I doubt he’s a mage — there’s very little magic coming off him. Perhaps he’s merely sensitive to the Fade?” the elf offers...

‘ _He was in here? When?_ ’ Geralt puzzles, worried he’s losing his edge down here.

“Solas, he fell,” the Cassandra woman growls, “...From a hole in the sky. How could that not be connected to the breach?!”

_Solas, huh._

“...I agree, something is off about him. He doesn’t react as someone typically would and he can clearly see in the dark. And beyond that, those many scars indicate he has escaped death too many times,” Cowl whispers back.

“All the more reason he should stay imprisoned,” Cassandra hisses but this Solas softly protests “I don’t think he’s actually connected, that this is all some tragic coincidence. Something isn’t adding up.”

“And I’ve reports that he often mentions places and royalty I’ve never heard of. Perhaps it’s code? Or he’s mad?,” Cowl questions but Solas replies “I can not know, not without further study...”

Cassandra, hating the idea of him, she states “he is not an asset to the Inquisition, he is clearly dangerous” with steel in her voice, her final judgement on the matter. Though he should keep his mouth shut, Geralt can’t help but pick up on that last bit of information, loudly mocking “An inquisition, huh? Doesn’t sound ominous and fanatical at all,” his rasp carrying beyond the dungeon. A rapid uttering of whispers, some confused and only one certain, they hurry out “what?” and “How can he… damnit. He heard us?”

Cowl though, she answers cooly “I suspected he may be able to.”

”Damn it Leliana, you could have told us,” Cassandra scoffs, frustrated by her companion.

“Interesting,” mutters the man named Solas, “his senses are quite impressive. Perhaps he _is_ a spy after all?”

“Oh, great job,” Geralt quietly reprimands himself as his captors retreat once more to the floors above, “Idiot.”

**  
______**

  
Now they’re straight up ignoring him.  
  
No visits in days, just the standard food drops consisting of a pissed off guard kicking a bowl of grey porridge at the bars.   
  
Pretty sure they spit in it — Geralt can hold out though. He’s hungry, sure, but that hunger won’t kill him yet, not with how he was twisted to be a perfect killer.

Seems even his little mouse friend has deserted.

All this until he hears the soft voice of a woman unsure of herself asking the guards “I need ta...go in there. Please” and without a moment's hesitation, saluting “Herald!,” the guards unlock the door and allow entry. The elf woman from before — olive skinned with dark hair, one side dreaded but all swept behind her. It’s only now Geralt is noticing the faint lines tattooed across her face, like leaves branching out from her eyes, all as she quietly drags a wooden chair across the room and takes a seat. Curious, but anxious, she at least seems to be enjoying the relative quiet down here in the dark cells even if they aren’t the picture of health and happiness.

So she just sits, just a mere few feet from his cell, looking him over or processing his features. Several minutes of nothing passes by and this elf with piercing green eyes, she mutters “So, people talk...”

“...And they never stop,” he grates, staring at the ceiling, but rolling his legs off his cot, picking himself up and resting his elbows against his knees, he rasps back “Good to see you’re alive. Thought they executed you.”

”Thought they were aff ta do tha’ fer a while. Might still,” she smiles sadly and falls quiet. Fidgeting with her hand, she removes a glove and the light show returns, dousing the dank cells in her neon green light. Hopeful but not for much, she stares longingly into the mark and asks “Do you know whit this is?”

Tilting his head like dog, peering at it through the bars, he shakes his head, rasping “Not a damn clue but it looks magic.”

”well, yes, but whit I mean is...”

”Magic isn’t really my thing,” Geralt grumbles, “I leave that shit to the sorceresses. Ask one of them.”

“...they say yer connected to th’ Breach...”

“Don’t doubt they are but considering I don’t know what _this_ breach is…”

“Terrifying hole in th’ sky,” she explains, “It spits out demons an’ fire. I know you’ve bin down here since it started but..”

Geralt, furrowing his brow, he leaps to his feet, attentive now as he asks “A hole in the sky?”

“Big enough ta swallow everything,” she stresses and muttering to himself, Geralt questions “Triss?”

“Who?,” the elf asks back and he’s quick to dismiss it, commenting “Friend of mine. She can make a portal but this sounds out of her league…”

Again, the elf falls quiet.

There’s another question gnawing at her, that much is obvious.

”What is it?,” he growls non-threateningly and though it takes a minute longer, she finally asks out “do we know each other?”

“Don’t think so. You Scoia’tael? Part of Iorveth’s crew?”

She stares back, shaking her head.

“...then probably not.”

Finding no answers, edging forward desperation, she slips her glove back on and quickly asks out “Who are you? Where are you from? I’ve never…I’ve never seen someone like you before.”

“Geralt of Rivia,” he growls, figuring he might as well tell her, “and I...”

“Rivain?,” she questions, not trusting her pointed ears.

“No. Rih-vee-uh. I’m a Witcher” he says to her blank faced stare, “Odd. Usually that gets a few jeers. You never heard of us?”

“Witches, yes… only not so much whit yer saying though...”

“You heard of Kaer Morhen?”

“…No? I’ve scouted outside th’ Free Marches before bit I don’t know tha’ many human places.”

“Free marches?”

“Creators, I’ve done this all backwards. Uh, so I’m Idrilla. Idri fer short,” she apologizes and before giving him a chance to answer, she complains “Look, they listen ta me fer some reason, they think I’m human holy.” Taking a pause to breathe, she shifts uncomfortably before saying “I’m not.”

”Hm, nice to meet you, Idrilla, but the spy in the hallway might disagree.”

”Whit?,” she spins in her seat, staring wide eyed back down the hallway — it only takes a moment for her eyes to narrow and she shouts “Git out heer!,” her anger thickening here accent, and slowly but sure of herself, that Leliana slinks into the room, padding softly up behind the elf, her eyes never leaving the Witcher.

”Why were you spying on me!”

”I was curious, Herald, to see what you get out of the man,” Leliana says sweetly, innocently, “I apologize” only Idrilla curses under her breath, blaspheming ”Creators, I’m not a damn herald.”

Ignoring her comment though, Leliana goes to say “So. Geralt” but Indrilla cuts her off, demanding “Noo! Stop with th’ shifty stuff!” and whipping back to Geralt, Idrilla fires off “Just gonna ask. Can you help me? I’m feelin’ like you can. Will you?”

“Herald,” Leliana cautions, not having expected that but this time Geralt cuts her off, asking “are there monsters involved?”

“I think so?”

”What is happening?” Leliana gawks, losing control of a situation she likely orchestrated. With a heavy sigh, Geralt growls out “be needing my stuff back.”

“I’ll see whit I can manage. They seem ta listen ta me. Only bonus of this herald crap.”

Muttering to herself, irritated by the deals being made without her say so, Leliana says “the other heads will not like this” so as to remind Idrilla of her role.

”So whit? I agreed ta work with you an’ now he can agree ta do th’ same.”

”It isn’t that simple, Herald...”

”Yes it is. And I’m not _**Herald**_! Consider it done. Sell it upstairs,” she groans out. But apparently Leliana isn’t disputing any further — instead, she does a curt little nod, staring unwaveringly to Geralt as if daring him to fuck up.

Make a move.

Prove everyone else right.   
  
A reason to have his head.

But beyond that, she slips back out into the hallway and up the stairs, the guards saluting her in passing.

”so,” Idrilla asks, “yer in?”

”This a paying job?”

The elf shrugs and quirks a brow.

”Damn...pro bono work. My favorite,” Geralt groans sarcastically.


	4. Chapter 4

The shuffle of bare feet on stone — his — and the inelegant tune of chains dragging up the steps, four guards escort him to the above. A stark difference from the cells below, he’s punched by the lingering aroma of spent incense and bright light. Squinting, letting his sensitive eyes adjust, he gravels out “Huh, heard the word ‘herald’ and still didn’t guess church. Good thing I wasn’t betting anyt…” but a guard shoves him, barking “QUIET, YOU” scaring a few of the Chantry sisters leering from the opposite wall.

“Real hospitable,” Geralt smirks back, hoping to irritate the cold-bitten soldier, the man’s cheeks a fresh and stinging pink from having recently been outside. Another soldier, they growl “should be put to the axe.”

“Too right,” another sneers but the bark of “Just put **_it_** in the war room!” by another shuts them up. Clad in furs and steel plate, this other man is every bit these soldiers’ superior. Not willing to piss off their commanding officer any further, they double time it, dragging Geralt along and slamming the heavy door shut behind themselves, they throw him in the closest chair, the interrogation seat — just across the table, others already wait.

Leliana, The seeker Cassandra, and their herald. Beside them, an olive skinned beauty reviewing parchment on a clipboard. Dressed as if attending an elegant ballroom party, all poppy yellows and golds, hers is an appearance most out of place…

“Why are we even discussing this,” the commanding officer groans as if already experiencing a migraine and stepping around the table of maps to join the others, he grates “ _it_ is an abomination — extermination is the only course.” Pinching at the meat between his index and thumb, he adds in a huff, “what more need be said of _it_?”

There it was again, the way he said “it.”

Unfortunately, Geralt’s all to used to that.

However, wrists chained even as they are, Geralt leans forward to the table, propping elbows and resting his chin in his callused palms. Might as well be comfortable if every breath he takes is an affront to these people.

“We are discussing _it_ ,” Cassandra starts only Geralt interjects “him” but talking over his insert, she states “BECAUSE THE HERALD HAS REQUESTED IT.”

“Well, ordered et,” the Idrilla speaks up in her thick brogue, raising her hand as if needing to be called on.

“But you are not the…ughh!,” the Commander argues her authority, “you are the herald, yes, but that doesn’t make you the end all in all matters of the Inquisition. This thing is an abomination that fell from the sky. He’s clearly in league with whatever made the Breach!”

Raising her hand again, the marked one in all it glowing green, she pointedly states “…I fell from th’ sky.”

Nostrils flaring, the Commander switches to pinching the bridge of his nose In frustration and it’s Cassandra who answers for him, pointedly stating “Andraste was only behind you.”

“Tha’ you saw,” Idrilla grumbles, folding her arms and sinking into the corner, “an’ he’s not a demon. Solas checked. No trace. Barely any magic even.”

“Solas _did_ say as much,” that clever Leliana one utters in contemplation, puzzling over such with her gloved knuckles to her lips before asking “Cassandra, _would_ Solas know? Can we trust him on this?”

“The apostate _did_ have knowledge enough to help with the herald’s mark…”

“Not a herald,” Idrilla speaks up again from the back but ignored by all, Cassandra continues to explain “It’s…odd…but Cullen, perhaps we should consider the possibility that..”

“That what? That the _thing_ with abnormal eyes and more scars than all of Kirkwall isn’t an abomination?! All on the word of an apostate?,” the man evidently named Cullen complains before stopping his rant. His hand coming to a rest on his sword pommel, Commander Cullen utters a reserved “do what you will. I’ll be ready to strike the _thing_ down when it does exactly as expected” and finds a spot against the wall to lean upon.

Apparently having heard none of the previously stated, only now recognizing Geralt’s presence, the elegant one drops her quill and lets out an “Ah!” at the sight of him.

“Josie…,” Leliana scolds with but a name but this Josie fires back “Leliana.”

“You weren’t paying attention….”

“I was reviewing our writs for…regardless, why is he in restraints? I thought this was to be a negotiation.”

“He’s dangerous,” she stated flatly.

“Who and what isn’t these days,” Josie fires back before turning her attention to the stranger seated across from her, smiling out “Hello, you may call me Josephine Montilyet, ambassador of the Inquisition. Who may I ask are you?” oh so pleasantly.

 _‘Wasn’t expecting that_ ,’ the Witcher notes before calmly answering “Geralt.”

“No last names or affiliations?,” she almost hums the words, her quill back in hand and eager to pen out the details spoken.

“Geralt of Rivia. Witcher of Kaer Morhen,” his yellow eyes locking to the dark almond ones of this Josephine.

“Rivia? Is that a colloquial term for Rivain?,” Josephine queries but Idrilla speaks up, saying “Uh, No. I already played tha‘ game with him.”

For clarification, Josephine asks again, “Rivia? I’m saying that right? Where is that located?”

“Winter capital near Mahakam. Ruled by Meve. It’s right off Loch...Eska…lott...” but slowing his roll, noting their blank or confused expressions, he growls out “damn it, Triss.”

“Who and…what are? Pardon?,” Josephine struggle to maintain her politeness while Cullen mutters “The _thing_ is mad. Fantastic” but Geralt has an idea.

...A terrible potential, one he can only hope to be wrong...

Groaning, getting a headache himself now, the white haired witcher gravels out “I think I know what’s happened. My companion opened a portal so we could escape a mob. Problem was her metamath was off — something was — I wouldn’t know, don’t ask, I’m not a sorceress. It took us…or knowing my luck, just me, and stuck me here.”

While most are still wearing confusion, the Leliana seems to get it, putting together the pieces more astutely, and she questions “This isn’t your world?”

As others fire back “What?,” Geralt answers “Pretty sure of it. I’ve done it before, the whole visiting other planes thing, only the others times were actually intentional. Between the vomiting and certain death, I never wanted to do it again. Hell, didn’t want to do it the first time. I hate portals.”

“There are..other…worlds?” Josephine absently asks, merely reiterating the concept as Cullen spits “impossible.”

“Unlikely, Commander, not impossible,” Leliana corrects with Cassandra quick to point out “the Chantry does not know what exists beyond the Fade. And how could it? The Maker is beyond us, his plans immeasurable.”

“...Maker…,” the Commander curses and goes quiet yet again, his fire barely quelled. Still uttering in awe, “Another world,” Josephine suddenly takes to furiously scribbling on her parchment, penning any and all details, her hand a blur before slamming on the brakes and blurting out “Please forgive our rudeness!” and snatching the keys from a guard, she goes about unlocking Geralt’s wrists. Alarmed, some shouting “JOSEPHINE!” or “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!,” all those armed draw their weapons.

Only, Geralt doesn’t move to strike. Nothing. He just rubs at his wrists and nods out an emotionless “Thanks.”

“Really, people,” Josephine grumbles though half the room gawks at her recklessness but keeping her attention on the witcher, she says “On behalf of the Inquisition, I apologize for how you were mistreated and our attitude regarding...”

“Don’t apologize to it!,” Cullen groans and wipes his gloves hand down his face but ignoring his outburst, Josephine continues the discussion, asking “So, in your own words, explain what you are, if you please.”

“A witcher….”

“And that is?”

“I was engineered to kill monsters.”

“Yes, Leliana told me such. But what _is_ a witcher. Forgive me, but if what you claim is true, we do not have such a thing in Thedas.”

“It’s a...” he considers how to answer, drumming his fingers once against the war table, “at a young age, I was trained in alchemy, signs, and combat. When ready, I was put through trials. Experiments. Most died but I survived so they pushed me even further. My senses and strength are all enhanced, I heal quickly, poison and disease don’t really affect me, and I age slowly... this was all done to better exterminate monsters. That’s what a witcher is, what I am.”

“Do demons qualify as monsters to you?”

“Are they killing or cursing people? Then yes,” Geralt answers but Cullen sneers from the sideline, “And if they’re not?” and Geralt’s forced to ask “Then are they actually demons?”

A valid point lost on this crowd.

“Yes, I can kill demons,” Geralt growls, “I’ve had some close calls but I’ve killed just about every monster I’ve gone up against.”

“Expertise..in…,” Josephine utters under her breath, taking pen to parchment, before asking louder “if you are to join us, what is it you seek to accomplish? What are your goals?”

“What gives you the authority to..” Cullen argues but Leliana is quick to hush at him, quietly firing back “She’s asking the right questions. Don’t interrupt — just stand there and look pretty.”

“...Uhh, I’d like a way home,” Geralt answers earnestly, “...Didn’t see a redhead with me by any chance? Name is Triss. Human. About yay tall,” and he levels his hand in the air, “Doesn’t wear low cut tops. She’s versed in magic? No? No…”

“No, there have been no reports of anyone by that description. You were the only one that came through your portal,” Leliana answers now and Josephine cuts back in, stating “so, if this Triss person _is_ in our world, we could search for her,” glancing Leliana’s way, “and in return, you aid us in solving who or what murdered the Divine…”

Geralt goes to raise a finger, to ask, but she preempts his query, stating “Justinia, holy leader of the Faith. We seek whomever destroyed the conclave,” and though he raises a finger again, she’s quick to answer “An attempt at a peace accords between the rogue Templars and rebelling mages.”

“Thanks,” he utters.

“Hundreds were killed and the result was a tear in the sky we call The Breach. Though it’s stable for now, it’s presence is the cause of rifts across the land that in turn unleash demons. With that being said, you would still join us?”

Doesn’t even warrant a second thought — Geralt’s quick to shrug “Yeah. Suppose that’d work.”

Leliana, taking back the reins, she informs “As a person of interest, you will have limited freedoms such as supervised access to Haven and only your swords and armor returned. Your explosives and vials will remain in my possession until the investigation has concluded — and if your story checks out — I am sure you can understand.”

‘ _Makes things tough…but not impossible,’_ Geralt thinks to himself, ‘ _new land. Probably different species of plants. Difficult to replicate my decoctions.’_ Slow to agree, he does just that, answering “Yeaaah. I can understand” and rising now, the guards reticent to unshackle his feet, he comments “We’re doing this then. There any wiggle room on discussing hazard pay?”

Leliana smirks but says nothing more — shackles undone, free for now, Geralt opts to leave, to take in some fresh air but Idrilla pulls the attention back, blurting out “Wait!,” not letting the meeting end just yet, “You said you age slow. Jist how old _are_ you?”

Rolling his neck and looking back over his shoulder at the room, he shrugs out “last count? Ninety something.”

To that, most jaws drop and a few eyebrows creep up, but it’s Josephine who reiterates “Again, Ser Geralt, welcome to the Inquisition” with a smile on her face.

**______**

Padded tunic, check.

Black boots, check.

Black leather cuirass with pauldrons, steel maille stitched to the surface? Check.

Wolf head medallion around his neck.  
  
Black leather gloves. Yes.

Leather groaning as he flexes, no longer effectively naked to the world, he grips tightly to both swords before cutting the air in tight arcs. His mastery of blades evident, he glides them both into their sheathes with blinding speed and accuracy. Exhaling a sigh of relief, he growls out “So.”

“So,” Cassandra parrots condescendingly, her arms folded.

“I really don’t need a babysitter.”

“I am not..ughh, a babysitter. You are not some weakling. I am your warden,” she scoffs, visibly frustrated by this arrangement, “Why we cannot simply keep you jailed between missions is beyond me.”

“I’m not that bad,” Geralt smirks, checking his various belts, “And everyone who knows me says I’m an amazing conversationalist.”

No one says that. Not ever has someone said that.

“Let’s just get this over with,” the Seeker mutters while stomping toward the chantry double doors — as wide as they are tall, the guards hasten to open it at her approach and together, they two make their way to the steps beyond. Cool, crisp mountain air, only a hint of sulfur in the breeze, green tinted sunlight cuts the clouds. “Well…that’s a different flavor,” Geralt growls while glaring to the gaping green maw in the sky, “Thought they only came in orange.”

“Regarding the Fade, it seems to always be green.”

“And,” Geralt questions, taking an educated guess, “regarding this Fade? It’s what’s through that big ass portal. Spirits and demons and…other?”

“It is. When we sleep, our minds go there and magic users are susceptible to the whispers of its denizens.”

“Huh,” he lets slip the nothing of a comment, but stretching his legs some, he questions “any leads on how it got made? The hole, not that whole Fade thing.”

“No….not truly,” she’s slow to reveal. Taking a sterling breath, her brow furrowing more by the second, she states “we witnessed a memory, but learned little. The shade was tall, eyes burning with hatred, but beyond that, nothing identifiable. And as I said, it was but a memory, cast in shade.”

Tearing his eyes from the atrocity in the air, scoping out the small town, he notes each building as his eyes pass over, noting the people coming and going from each…

Sauntering off, leaving our Seeker to stay on his tail, he growls out “I need a drink. Your treat” and she’s quick to protest, groaning “ughh, _my_ treat?! What makes you think I’d…” but once more Geralt interrupts, pivoting on his heel and smirking out “haven’t gotten paid yet. I’m hunting something big — best thing for that isn’t sobriety.”

“I’m going to kill her,” Cassandra whispers to herself, her pitch rising an octave from pure irritation, “I’m going to kill _him_ and _then_ The Herald. Maker preserve me…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoooo boy, some people just do not like Strange people falling out Of the sky.
> 
> ***shrugs***
> 
> How am I doing with this crossover so far?


	5. Chapter 5

Cat eyes roving over every bottle and cask behind the bar, pretending to not notice the all too obvious stress and worry the bartender is experiencing from his being there, he realizes aloud “hmmmmmmmm…can’t read any of it.”

“P-p-pardon?!,” the woman behind the counter stammers out, clearly terrified, but Cassandra, shoving the witcher aside, demands “your cheapest drink.”

“L-Lady Cassandra!,” the bartender squeaks out, “that-that would be water, m’lady.”

“Mmmmmmmm,” Geralt grumbles from the side but refusing to even look his way, Cassandra demands “cheapest ale” and slams a copper to the counter,” just the one.”

“Right away!,” she answers quickly and runs quicker, off to pour a pint before any other request can fly her way, before other patrons can call upon her. Seething, hating everything about this moment, she shoots Geralt a mean glare and spits “this. Is. A one. Time. Thing” but before Geralt can respond, a voice of equal gravitas calls out from across the room, off by the fireplace.

“SEEKER,” a roguish dwarf greets her, though it seems to be an attempt at calling attention to her being her, “FINALLY HERE TO SHARE A DRINK?” Her frustration swiftly redirected, she directs a withering stare to the beardless dwarf, as if willing the man out of existence…

Or perhaps herself…

…continuing, trying his best to embarrass her, the dwarf launches into a monologue, loudly proclaiming “YOU INTERROGATED ME FOR DAYS ON END, TOOK ME PRISONER…” for all to hear, all the while striding closer, a swagger to his every step. Right behind her now, his hands on his hips, he lowers his voice but continues on, “After all that, the least you could do is buy me a drink like you’re doing for _this_ fine upstanding gentleman.” As Geralt let’s slip a sarcastic huff, Cassandra threatens “I’m in no mood, Dwarf. Go, now.”

“Oh, is that any way to talk to your friend — you have so few — why _try_ to scare away those remaining?,” he teases, only the slightest of tooth in that quip of his. “Varric…,” she warns but still he persists, “and who _is_ your companion? Why, Cassandra, I didn’t know you were being courted. I guess Orlais’ rumor mill is off their game.”

“It’s as if you actually want to die,” Cassandra utters in warning as Flissa slides the foamy ale across the countertop, stopping just shy of giving it all the way to Geralt. No matter, he doesn’t need the service. He’s not a child or a noble, the differences between the two nigh imperceptible. As he drinks of the weak beer, its taste of clay and some indeterminable type of grit — maybe sand — the Seeker and the dwarf continue trading insults, some more blunt than others.

“Always so angry.”

“Blasphemer.”

“Desperately needs sex says what?”

“Keep it up, dwarf,” she speaks low and with venom but he’s quick to fire back “For you?”

“Ughh! NO! That’s not what I…”

“Ah, I get it now. So that’s the reason you brought me to the ass end of nowhere,” he smiles out.

“He wasn’t funny,” she threatens now, “that’s what they’ll say at your funeral.”

…Geralt decides he’s had enough headaches today — leaving the disgusting drink only half consumed, he shoves on through the small gathering of people and out the door to the cool air beyond. Outside, wandering aimlessly really, it’s by sheer chance that he almost knocks down an elf absently staring to the Breach…

“Apologies,” Geralt forces himself to say.

“Ah, no, please, I was the one standing in the way. Forgive me, I was distracted by it,” Solas both apologizes and queries, brushing the snow and dust from his modest attire, “what secrets The Breach may hold, that for all its terror, it’s equally impressive…”

“Yyyyyeah.”

“Hmph,” the elf smiles through a huff, “a man of few words. Though you may be such, might I bend your ear?” With a nod and a shrug, Geralt nonverbally agrees and Solas proffers his hand, leading the way — ambling among the frozen dirt path, the two move in silence, gauging the other before climbing a small flight of steps. Nearing pallets of potions, herbs, and grenades — all which are currently being readied for transport, soldiers making sure the securing lines are tight — Solas finally turns to Geralt and asks “Forgive my impropriety, but I was tasked with studying you as you slept. I understand this may seem a violation of personal space but I assure you, I was most respectful...”

Geralt just watches the elf, waiting as Solas feels the need to continue in his justification…

“…Ahem,” the modest elf clears his throat, “well, of the things I noticed, though you exhibit some traces of magic, you don’t appear to be a mage.”

“Cause I’m not.”

“Ah, then it’s likely anomalous, merely an effect of being too near the Breach. Another thing of note, one I couldn’t decipher — something I only noticed upon trying to understand the former concern — you seem to have an unnatural resonance...”

“Makes sense,” Geralt grumbles under his breath and Solas continues on to posit “simply put, your spirit doesn’t sing the same way that others…” but catching what the scarred one uttered, the elf questions “wait. What? How does this make sense?”

Keeping his eyes off the sky — the damn Breach gives him a headache just looking at it — he growls out “Cutting to quick, this isn’t my world.”

“Truly? You..you say that as if it’s a natural as breathing — to speak so blasé of incredible circumstances, yours must be a storied life to find this all so dull. If you would, please, I would love to hear tell of this other place. What magics and history does it hold? How does it compare to here and…”

“You get one.”

“Pardon?”

“One question,” Geralt issues his ultimatum, “One and done.”

“Uh, oh? Very well…,” he ponders and puzzles, albeit slightly taken aback, “perhaps…what of the…no. Or instead the…Hmm. I’ve got it! What of your world’s history? Do things ever truly change or is there a…” 

“Everything’s a snake eating it’s own tail. Nothing changes. Destiny is a bitch and life is ruled by Chaos.”

“Could you elaborate on…,” Solas inquires, pressing the matter but noticing a silver medallion twitching around the Witcher’s neck, he instead loses track of his query and asks instead “ what…is happening…with your amulet?

“Hrmmm,” Geralt growls out, done, not giving a shit about his wolf medallion. So it reacts to the presence of magic — what here isn’t drowning in ambient magic? There’s a fucking hole in the sky and witches all over the town. The silver piece acting like this is normal.

“Why is it doing...?”

”No.”

“WHERE _IS_ HE!?,” Cassandra abruptly yells out nearby, cutting through the din of townspeople and apparently having lost her distraction in the form of that dwarf — as she comes tearing out of the bar, eyes furiously hunting the old wolf, Geralt growls “over here” to his chaperone before she can really get pissed.

“YOU!,” she fumes and storms toward the two and Geralt replies “Me.”

Jabbing him in the chest, her sword hand at the ready, she threatens “You. Stay. By. Me” but Solas interjects from the side, a third wheel to this cart of angry, “Seeker, I apologize. I bumped into the man in my distraction and wondered if he might regale me with knowledge of his world. I didn’t mean to cause undue stress” while folding his arms behind his back. Ignoring the Elven mage mage’s attempt at reconciliation, however, she grabs Geralt by the wrist and yanks him after her.

 _‘Strong_ ,’ he thought with her iron grip hauling him along.

“That’s it,” she demands, irritated as hell, “FOLLOW ME” but not giving him a choice for anything else, she continues dragging him along behind her, toward the town gates and past soldiers sparring. As they pass, movements slow and soon enough, too many eyes are on him, the intruder. Releasing though, a snowy hilltop all their own, she rips her sword free and spins on him, barking “PROVE YOUR WORTH.”

“Shit,” he curses and parries with the flat of his callused palm as she lunges. Blade deflected, she drops back to repeat her attack but Geralt’s moving faster than a man should — two strikes to the chest plate, he staggers her momentarily, giving him the chance to knock her legs out from under her. Quick herself, she rolls into the fall and sweeps at his ankles with the longsword.

Hop.

Stomp.

He’s standing on her blade but using the sharpened steel as a lever, gripping tight to the hilt, she throws him off, showing how much a threat she might be. Arcing uppercut — Metal sings as air parts. Steel meets steel, his sword finally loosed to greet her. Locked, each grabbing the other’s sword hand, Cassandra hisses “you are quick” while he comments gruffly “and you’re strong.”

”I am conviction,” she states resolutely, “strong as my faith” and with that, she rips free of the stalemate and punches Geralt in the face. Twice. Thrice. The old man spits blood and growls out “fuck that” while grinning like a dog, all teeth and hunger, before smashing his forehead against hers.

Soldiers gasp and the crowd falls quiet.

Her skull blushing from the hit but refusing to show weakness, she brings up her blade, two handing the razor’s edge and insulting “I've yet to see evidence of your so-called skills” 

Annoyed — not from the attempted slander but because he has to waste time fighting a human — he stomps over to the nearest soldier and outright steals their sword. As they yell “oi! What the devil!” in protest, Geralt hilt smacks him and growls “fuck off. Just borrowing it” before leaping at the Seeker. A tornado of two swords, a flurry of cutting edges, he repeatedly crashes upon the cliff that is Cassandra. She can’t counter, can’t go on the offense for the speed and force of his every blow but just when she thinks there’s and opening, he brings both swords smashing into her like a mace into her armored side — she’s holding tight, iron gripping those blades to her to keep him from using them.

She stabs with her free hand, hers the only blade of three able to move.

”Fuck this,” he quickly spits and boot stomps her in the guts while twisting to grab her blade — a clattering of steel, the seeker goes off the hill, rolling across the frozen shoreline and ultimately pulling herself into a kneel. Looking prepped to use her own blade against her, he storms forward like an executioner to the block takes but she announces, “Hold,” one fist to the air as she wipes at a busted lip, “it is over.”

At that simple concession, he stops. Tossing her sword to the ground before her with a thud, she eyes him and he growls “you fight well,” shockingly giving her praise.

“You...as well,” she seems hesitant to comment though it does sound honest.

“Hmmm,” he grunts in non-answer, snatching his own Kaer Morhen steel from the dusting of snow and with an expert fluidity, his sword leaps back into its sheathe on his back. Showing no signs of slowing, Cassandra rises, as if she hadn’t suffered a number of blows but though eyeing the Witcher, she also notices the number of eyes watching them and she barks “GET BACK TO YOUR DUTIES!” and the crowd nearly trip over themselves to comply, no one wanting to further anger the famously angry Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast.   
  
Okay. She’s damn impressive. That’s for sure. Furthermore, all those men scattering at her shout, Geralt can’t help but smirk in appreciation. So long as she doesn’t spout religion at him or try to put him back in a cage, he thinks ‘ _huh_... _might_ _actually get along with her._ ’ He can’t help it really...

He’s a sucker for strong women.


	6. Chapter 6

It’s been a week since their fight and though something must’ve convinced the Seeker lady he didn’t need a chaperone, Geralt’s noticed that the town’s aversion to him hasn’t abated in the least. Still they curse him, calling him “demon” and “abomination,” won’t cease in their uneasy leering…

Whatever. Nothing’s new under the sun.

He’d spend time at the stables if there were any horses because in all honesty, they’re better than people most days. Unfortunately, someone forgot to tell the “Inquisition” that it helps to have mounts. Pretty ragtag group but not the worst off. Saskia and Yarpin’s forces were much more threadbare as a unit. Drinks here are worse than piss — Not worth the coin Geralt doesn’t yet have — but overall, it’s a decent group.

“What’s this,” Geralt growls, sniffing a pinch of dried red and purple petals

“Blood lotus,” the alchemist Adan growled back, his pestle furiously grinding away at herbs in the mortar.

“What are its properties?”

“Flammable. Causes hallucinations.”

“And this?,” the white hair growls, holding up a handful of fluorescent teal Mushroom caps and sniffing at them.

“A species of Deep Mushrooms. Used for Healing. Reagent for lyrium absorption. Flammable. Mild hallucinations.”

“Hmm?,” Geralt grunts in question over a thin stalked purple flower, not even bothering to use words now. Adan, he takes a glance while sprinkling some fouls smelling liquid in his mash and he angrily answers “Deathroot. Lunatic species. Causes painful and terrifying hallucinations, flammable, often used to amplify magical eff…wait. No! stop fucking asking me and just read the damn book in the corner!”

“Can’t read whatever this…is,” Geralt argues and holds the herbalist tome upside down — then noting the illustrations, he flips it right side up, grunting “hmmm no. Still chicken scratch.”

“Andraste’s ass, why can’t it ever be easy people with easy problems? First the The Herald, then all the wounded, and now you. Just. God damn. Fantastic,” the alchemist snipes and complains, taking a step back from whatever concoction he’s working on as pink fumes rise from the bowl. “You’ve been pestering me for two days straight. Get out.”

“Hmmmmmmmmm,” Geralt growls in threat but Adan’s not having any of that shit. He picks up a homemade grenade, holds is just close enough to the brazier to cause a sane person to piss themselves, and he growls back “Come back when you can read,” a desperate madness to his grim face. To that, Geralt slowly raises his hands in surrender, his every step backwards carefully measured so as not to spook the alchemist and cause him accidentally spark the damn thing and as soon as he’s out in the brisk mountain air, the door slams shut in his face.

His medallion still quivering, he turns and finds a good forty something people paused in their duties, some glaring and others looking on fear. As an annoyed grunt rumbles in his throat, he rolls his eyes and goes stomping off toward the Chantry. Maybe one of those lady priests can help him. Doubtful. Religious cults have seldom been of use to Geralt in his long and violent struggle to maintain his grip on life… but if just one person can help, he can start making decoctions. Surely when they’re on the road doing whatever it is this Inquisition is supposed to be doing, he’ll have to fight. Be real helpful if he could have all his usual toxic advantages…

But as lay sisters and holy folk avert their gaze, Geralt notes “the brightly dressed one. Didn’t look to hate you. Could be helpful” while already pushing in what he hopes is the door to the office. It’s a spartan dwelling, likely a storeroom converted to bedroom and office. Josephine has her desk but in the corner are barrels of dried goods and shelves of moldering books but at his arrival, she perks up with a nervous energy and greets “Ah, Ser Geralt! How are you?” with a genuine smile.

“I’m…,” he replies but struggles to figure out what he is. Annoyed? Relieved? It’s difficult to go from the jackasses out there to the inviting pleasantness of her demeanor. And she’s still all canary yellow and gold, an excellent contrast for her tan complexion. “I need to know this world. Herbs. Metals. Monsters. But despite us speaking the same tongue, I can’t read your…”

“Common? My apologies! I hadn’t considered that that could even be an issue but I suppose it does make a certain amount of sense.”

“You often have people falling through portals from other worlds?”

“Heh,” she sighs with a wry smirk, “you make a fair point but all the same. I could perhaps arrange for you to have a tutor? I’m afraid the Inquisition is woefully understaffed when it comes to educators so it would have to be a revered mother…”

“hmmmm,” he grumbles low while leaning against the wall, “got a feeling the priests won’t be too eager to teach me.”

“So it is true?,” she sits more upright, her finely tweezed eyebrows knitting in concern as she sucks in air, “I had heard….that people were speaking ill of you, being rude and…”

“Ehh. That’s not new for me,” he shrugs and she’s quick to address “but as a member of the Inquisition, that absolutely won’t do!”

“Doesn’t matter. They don’t want to see me as human. Well, I’m not.”

“Could...I’m sorry but how are you not a human?”

“I’m a witcher. Less human than an elf or a dwarf.”

“Is that really how you see yourself?”

It’s not an unreasonable question but his response is just the casual rise of his brow.

“I’m sorry you think that but the Inquisition represents more than human interest,” she comments with a saddened note, “there is one thing I can do for you thought Our researcher Minaeve dissects demons and creatures brought in by soldiers. Her intent is to find weaknesses to exploit in the field. Perhaps..perhaps she would let you observe?”

“Yes,” he answers monosyllabically, “where?”

“In the dungeon hallway, there’s a cell she’s claimed for her studies. It will be on the left. May I show you the way?,” she informs and offers but Geralt just dismisses the notion with a shake of his head, answering “no need, Princess. I’m familiar with the dungeon” and goes to leave.

“Princess?,” she asks after him, her lips pursed and an eyebrow curiously quirked.

“Yes,” is all he answers before closing the door behind him.

**______**

“Interesting… this Greater Terror has tertiary claws,” the Elven mage notes somewhat unfazed while dragging her scalpel down a length of forearm and using forceps to peel back a thin veiny patch of skin, “unfortunately it’s not very helpful — it’s too inconsistent.”

“Not true,” Geralt gravels, leaning in for a closer look by torchlight, “these look like they’d burst from the flesh if triggered. Knowing to be wary of the arms in any case is useful.”

“If they can even be used,” the elf points out while glancing up to the Witcher, “demons, their forms don’t need to make sense biologically or even structurally. They coalesce how they think they should.”

“So this one could’ve been thinking too hard about claws and teeth and…,” he waves to the remains, “that’s it?”

“Pretty much,” she confirms, inking her pen and taking a few notes, “it’s been a few hours. Would you like to break here or keep studying?”

Had it been that long already? Hard to tell time in a dungeon, true, but the dissections she’s shown thus far have proven to be intriguing. From the electrically conductive nature of a Pride demon’s pound of flesh to still chilled scraps of a Despair, the light absorbing black of the Lesser Horror’s ichor to the unsettling array of razor teeth pried from a hunger demon, this has all been incredibly informative. “Hmm, one more?,” he asks after and with a smirk, Minaeve stands from her chair and says “fine, one more, but please stand back. This sample is hazardous.” Slipping on a pair of heavy leather gloves, she goes to the corner and hefts a lidded cauldron up and onto an empty half of table. Opening it up, the chill of the room is forced away as heat billows out — a dying light, the orange glow of a malformed skull sits within and she classifies it as “rage demon. Handle with extreme caution. They typically erupt and can breathe fire. In rare cases, they can detonate. This solitary piece is all the Inquisition could bring back for observation.”

“Interesting how it’s still burning,” he notes while poking at it with a steel rod, “any record on how hot they burn?”

“Hot enough to melt iron, steel, copper. This one melted the armor of several soldiers before those remaining managed to bring it down.”

“How?”

“Fluke,” she utters, ashamed it seems that her research into this one has yet to yield any benefits, “there was an avalanche that buried the demon and some of the men. Rage tried to get free but lost much of its heat in the attempt.”

“Good to know.”

“To avoid these at all costs? Yeah, I suppose that’s good,” she shrugs.

“No. Trust me. This helps,” he growls approvingly and she pops the lid back on. Turning in her chair to face the scarred hybrid of a man before her, her big eyes squinting from either intrigue or exhaustion, she asks “how exactly?”

”If I ever find myself battling these, if I’m quick enough, I may be able to use these monsters against each other” he utters to which she huffs out “that would be a sight. And you’re fast enough?”

”we’ll see.”


	7. Chapter 7

Not enough in the way of coin to trade with — apparently the tavern doesn’t do an exchange rate on Florens, Ducats, Farthings, Bizants, or Crowns — only a few generic coppers to his name, Geralt sits by a fire of his making at the frozen lakeside, a naked mole rat looking thing roasting upon a spit. He would’ve cast Igni to get it going quick but opted for the old fashioned way of going about it…

These people are fearful of magic — for good reason — and he doubts they’d even get that signs aren’t that.

As its hairless flesh chars in the twilight, another minute closer to his stomach being full, a small squadron of soldiers make their noisy approach in creaking leather and squeaky steel. Loud to him at least. Probably not as loud to the ordinary folk..

“You” an entirely unremarkable human demands, “the Commander will have words with you.”

“Can it wait?,” Geralt growls the question while eying his dinner, the low flames licking away at it’s underside. Their hands move to their sword — not unsheathing, but the intent is clear — and the speaker, he spits “now” in a disrespectful tone. All eyes on Geralt, his eyes on the meat, but with a reluctant grimace, he slowly rises from his log and stomps out the flames. Maybe the mole thing is good enough as is. Maybe not. But grabbing the spit, he saunters off ahead of the soldiers, taking a dribbling bite of his prize.

Not even close to done — it leaks blood and the meat’s too pink.

“Pffft,” he spits out the bleeding chew and tosses the undercooked mole thing to the trampled, dirty snow before uttering a sarcastic “thanks, boys.” They don’t take kindly to him talking directly to them, as if his words bring curses or doom upon their households. He can hear as they stiffen up, several dangerously close to drawing their blades, but a couple whisper “ignore the creature” to their comrades in the hopes of diffusing the situation….

Across the practice grounds…

Through the jumble of tents, soldier housing…

They eight arrive at a tent as ordinary as the rest — no adorning or banners, nothing to indicate his rank — but he’s already outside and waiting, huffing plumes of steam into the cold mountain air. No societal niceties, the Commander, this golden haired Cullen, he launches into “Creature. You impressed Seeker Cassandra —no easy feat — that she spoke highly of your skills is a worthwhile thing indeed” and with a relenting groan, he states “bearing that in mind, and after considerate deliberation, it has been decided that you will join the next expedition into the Frostbacks. Though the Breach has been calmed, and no further rifts have appeared, there are countless tears throughout the mountains that even now are releasing demons into our world. This is not up for debate. You will go where told and do what is ordered of you.”

“Hmmm,” Geralt grumbles, shifting from one foot to the other, “was under the impression I’d be protecting your Herald.”

“No. Were that the case, you’d be in the Hinterlands as we speak. You leave at dawn. That is all,” the Commander dismisses and turns his back on the Witcher, retreating into his tent for now.

‘She already left?,’ he ponders of his failing to notice her absence before uttering a sharp “Fuck.”

“What was that, you devil?,” one of the soldiers behind him questions aggressively, putting the others on edge. Stomping to face the easy scared human, Geralt glares at the men and women, staring them down before answering “fuck. I said fuck.”

*****

A pouch of dried rations and a sack of piss weak ale.

A single health potion.

A length of rope.

A handful of climbing spikes and a mallet.

A raggedy bedroll.

An ill fitting cloak.

That’s all he was given to start this fool’s errand though it’s not the supplies that irk him — he’s certainly done more with less — but it’s obvious their disdain for him. The other soldiers, at least their gear fits. And at a glance, they’ve more in the way of health potions.

‘Well good for them,’ the Witcher thinks while bundling up, strapping everything of note to himself, ‘they’re going to need them.’ Geralt will get by however he has to but it still doesn’t feel any better to hear a number of townspeople spitting in his direction as he leaves.

But of course they salute or cheer the other twenty soldiers.

“Shits,” he groans under his breath. It’s always humans that are so unfortunately predictable…

Off into the winter winds they all march with Geralt at the rear. Down a winding path and over a stone bridge, through a barricaded gatehouse and sidestepping a another bridge blasted to bits, its wood still smoldering from what one can only assume to be demonic fire. Down onto the frozen lakes, he’s overheard the others’ whispers of how it should take an hour of trudging just to get to the site of the conclave…

…and whispers lost in the wind about the time it should take from there…

**______**   
  


Scorched earth.

Upset, still smoking, hissing at the very touch of snowflakes.

Every bit of life, blown away.

As their numbers round the perimeter of the blast, of what the conclave was reduced to in an instant, Geralt can’t help but utter “…almost as bad as the battlefield outside Vergen…” under his breath — stepping past stripped corpses locked in place, bound to forever wear their own deaths with empty sockets still smoldering even weeks after the events, he corrects himself with “scratch that…just as bad.”

“Now you understand?,” a soldier spits, noting Geralt’s stunned expression while also doing his best to sidestep the lurid dead, every footfall scraping unnaturally. Nothing will ever grow heat again, the damage that deep, that permeated into the very mountainside…

“Don’t talk to it,” another hisses in warning, spooked enough as is. Truthfully, all these humans are on edge, there’s a stench of fear to them. Geralt can smell that much at least, it’s distinct enough, even with everything here reeking of stark ozone, that harsh clean right before lightning strikes.

But there’s nothing here for them — the Breach doesn’t count — whatever rifts this fool’s errand takes them to, it’s allegedly nowhere near here…

**______**

Three god damned days.

No sight nor hint of these so called rifts.

Endless trudging through snow drifts and navigating dangerous ledges, thus far its been a fruitless fucking venture. Nothing but bleak white and more snowfall to come, there haven’t even been trails or clues of demon activity. The only thing worth learning up here is how quickly piss freezes midstream and how quickly hypothermia will try to claim a man if he loses his lined cloak to the harsh winds clawing at them like a feral cat…

Worse, It’s really starting to feel like this was all to get him out and away from Haven…

With that potential all too realistic for his liking, that creeping paranoia scratching gently at the back of his neck, Geralt’s been keeping a keen eye on all those accompanying him. He doesn’t need a damn knife to his throat. Again, that would be all too predictable…then again, these pricks deny him a seat at their fires each night.

So far, every night has been the same — the soldiers leer at him or shout their curses, they make their fire and tell their stories, all the while Geralt saunters off into the dark, putting his back to a cliff face or taking his rest in the mouth of a cave. But even in the mouth this night, just far enough away for their fire to be but a dim spot in the blank, their words still travel on the winds…

“What was the commander thinking?”

“Maker, no sane man would knowingly send it with us…”

“Hehe, no sane man would go wandering in this,” the first chuckles sarcastically.

“Hush. Abomination or no,” a third chimes in, middle aged by the timbre of their voice, “we have a mission given us by the herald herself.”

‘ _So he actually buys into this Andraste crap?,’_ Geralt notes while inspecting his steel, ‘ _might prove useful.’_

“You shame me…”

“Not tryin’ to shame, just remind…”

“Understood sir…”

Another yet, they inquire “how far still until our mark?” before audibly chewing at something. Dried meat, maybe. “We’re getting close, yes?”

“Yes,” the older ranking officer confirms, the sounds of parchment folding…

 _‘…a lie?,’_ Geralt thinks he’s picked up. Hard to tell without looking the man in the eyes, listening for his pulse and watching the body language. All he can do is listen; he’s not getting an invite to get any closer, that’s for damn sure. Crossing his legs, placing his sword across his knees, he closes his eyes to meditate…

No true sleep for now.

Too much at risk..

**______**

Seven.

Blistering cold and cracking lips, stinging skin chapped and red…

Morale’s been low for days and you can almost taste its bitterness. Seven days and not a single one of these rifts, not a trace of demon spewing portals these Theodosians love to bandy about. Maybe the issue was just greatly exaggerated?

One can only hope…

At least that’d prove good in the long term assuming they don’t all freeze or starve to death in these mountains. All is quiet, save the unyielding whistle in their ears. All is calm until…“Oi!,” one soldier yells above the screaming winds, “there’s something over…” but his words get lost, carried away into the squall. Through the infinite white, all that bleak, a pulse of green just barely perceptible, it growls like the churning of an upset stomach.

“To arms!,” another shouts and steel sings as swords unsheathe. Wary, every step measured, the twenty move through the blanketing storm to encircle the tear; the sliver grumbles and twists in the air, at their approach, reacting to mortal presence. As the others move, Geralt holds back, gripping at the hilts of both swords, ready to unleash but uncertain which metal will react best with whatever creature may emerge. And then the tendrils — green energetic fingers creep from the slice, stretching, reaching, releasing…

If something with gnashing mandibles could giggle, that’s what these small horrors let loose. Skittering half buried through the snow, they dart at the feet of the Inquisition soldiers, but for these they’ve had proper training. Swift, in a squelching stab, most drive their sword tips down into the tiny horrors before they can nip and bite. Most. One soldier, he belts out a “MAKER PROTECT ME” while slashing wildly and kicking at the air — stumbling back into the snow drift, flailing, the demon scrambles up his leg like a centipede with a human face, giggling still as it tries to chomp with spider’s jaws only with a slick shink, the beast is felled. Bloodless, it halves and topples off him into the snow, dead or dying as the Lieutenant barks “ALWAYS KEEP YOUR FOOTING. IF YOU FAIL AT THAT, IMPROVISE” and turning his attention to the small bubbling rift, he adds “PREPARE THE BARRICADES!”

No more haunting giggling in the wind, Geralt simply watches as the soldiers hurry along, fanning out to apparently find debris. Piling what they’ve found — rocks, chunks of dead wood, snow — they pack it up against and around the rift, some doing what they can to bury it while other soldiers hurry to pour water over the shoddy defense.

“MORE WATER, MORE SNOW,” the lieutenant barks as soldiers hasten to comply, “ONCE THIS ISNGOOD AND FROZEN, WE’LL MAKE OUR WAY UP THE NORTHER RIDGE.”

 _‘Interesting,’_ Geralt notes as his eyes continue roaming the snows and drifts for more the of the unsettling beasts, playing watchdog while these others take care of what’s important.

“YOU THINK YOU’RE TOO GOOD FOR PILING?,” one soldier shouts at the Witcher but he growls back “Keeping watch.”

“ON US?”

“SHUT IT, FRANCO,” the lieutenant orders, his watch already settled on Geralt but our Witcher’s attention lies elsewhere; tromping through the rising snows, he snatches a dead demon from the drift, examining the creature until it outright dissipates in his hand…

“The small ones don’t last long after you put ‘em down,” Geralt hums to himself but the Lieutenant, he comments “and you catch on quick. Now get piling.”


	8. Chapter 8

Twelve

Twelve days.

Rations nearly depleted. No animals in sight. Been little in the way of resources up here. Snow’s the only thing in abundance but at least the skies are clear at present. Hasn’t stopped the wind strewn ice from clinging to his scruff, a cold unwanted passenger. Everyone ran dry of ale days ago. Been packing snow into their wine sacks and sitting them by whatever fires aren’t succumbing to the damp, whichever they can keep alive…

 _“_ Sodium. Potassium,” Geralt rumbles to himself at his own dwindling fire off from the main group, “titanium, calcium, magnesium.”

“Be quiet or I’ll make you quiet,” one man threatens from the other fire several yards away but another soldier actually defends “you didn’t see _it_ fight the Lady Seeker.”

“Then he cheated.”

“Didn’t look it.”

“Bollocks. Abomination isn’t beating a seeker.”

Ignoring the usual curses and hurled insults, Geralt continues to gravel in annoyance, still refusing to cast in front of this lot, “of which, are all in my materials pouch. Any could increase the temperature of this fire but no, _she_ just had to confiscate it.“ Any convenience here wouldn’t be worth the headache or mob of later.

“He’s going to curse us. Just you wait,” this insistent Franco prick spits. Fortunate for him and Geralt’s not so waning irritation, scouts crest the rise, of beckoning with a wave. Lieutenant Haddock cuts his hand across his throat, yelling “dead the fires. We’ve got something” and storms up the hill with several in tow while laggers tend to the embers and all go after…

Over the rise, they all push through a lone thicket of pine only to find frozen corpses of half gnawed animals. Rams. Each with a chunk of their brethren in their gruesome mouths, jawbones broken from some unknown. As a number of soldiers touch hand to heart, perhaps in prayer to their gods at e sight of this bestial cannibal party, Haddock is the only one mindful enough to caution “unfortunate beasts were taken by a demon. Nothing else would inspire this level of horror.Hunger demons.”

“Are we to burn them?,” one helmed soldier inquires, looking about as uneasily as they rest.

“Yes,” the lieutenant comments as he kicks at the frozen rams with his snow boot, “frozen through but there’s no telling what’ll attract demons” but as soldiers begin rummaging through their packs for oil and flint, Geralt argues “just hack them into bits.”

“Fire is the only sure thing we’ve got in our arsenal that..” Lieutenant Haddock protests but in a flurry of motion, Geralt chops thrice at one of the frozen dead — soldiers raise their blades in threat — he continues hacking, dicing the beasts to bits before sheathing his steel as fluidly as he drew it. “Nothing will possess that,” Geralt growls of the piles of mulched ram slowly staining the ground with their thick, iced blood.

“We don’t know what will and won’t stop the…” Haddock protests only Geralt stomps up, growling “whom among you studied demonology. Who here has resources to spare,” neither of which he poses as questions but fact. Tension, the air thick with it. He raised a good point but most seem to object on the merits of it being _his_ point. “Are we going to have trouble here?” Haddock questions, eyes narrowed in opposition, not backing down.

“I don’t want to drag your corpses back to Haven after you all freeze to…” Geralt rasps but a putrid dripping of tree sap drips across his brow. The winds shift and others gag from the scent, dark sap raining from the trees. “WHAT _IS_ THIS?,” one cries as another drops to their knees, humming “wwwonderful,” blissfully vacant and uncaring of the foul residue drizzled across his eyes. Others drop, all teeth chattering as they snicker and giggle, rolling in the dirt and snow. With a harsh snort, like trying to stave off an encroaching drunken blackout, Geralt shakes his head and wipes at the foul substance with the back of his glove — no breathing after that, he tries to slow his heartbeat, slow the blood flow.

Crows laugh in the treetops, but it’s all so breathy…

‘ _Poison? Sedative? Spell?_ ’ all shoot to the forefront of his thoughts as he tries to shake the effect of whatever this is — the others though, some seventeen, they go digging through their satchels and rucksacks, hungrily devouring what little food they have remaining, drinking down whatever they can, licking crumbs from their finger tips, but as quickly as that processes, somethings vacuous loudly swallow from above, ravenous in their inhales, hungry for the very air as the faint sound of rags whip about. A shower of pine needles as as the very trees quiver and shake,

Nails rake bark, drawing ever closer, more obsessed than determined in their pace.

Not crows — far too large for that — but dark mottled humanoids descend upon the groups, faces stretched out like curved beaks, blank white eyes glaring hungrily beneath downy cowls. The beaks split wide, but it’s no beak at all. Human hands, fingers unlocking down the entire neck, it’s but a gaping maw with fingers grasping clutching reaching, the entire top half of the demons peeled back. Struggling to stay upright himself, the creatures’ black spit working into Geralt like the trap it is, he’s forced to cast Quen, enveloping himself in a kinetic barrier giving off the just slightest of orange light…

But in the darkness of the thicket, he may as well be a beacon, a lighthouse signaling his position.

Immediately one demon rebounds off his shield, roaring out gurgled bursts of hate and a second crashes into Geralt, its gaping mouth flaps and fingers greedily snatching at him to no avail — with a slight twist, using what he has on hand, she stabs his steel deep into the chasm-mouth just as he lets Quen drop. Though the few unaffected soldiers are trying to keep demons off their addled comrades still eating everything in sight, chewing on the very leather of their satchels and vambraces, the four can only do so much. An Elven soldier looses arrow after arrow, retreating several feet with every advance but that Franco asshole comes in heavy with his sword and shield, bashing at a demon’s gaping mouth and hacking at its sides. As the beast rages, ravenous and clawing, a woman leaps upon its back and sinks both her daggers into its vacant eye sockets. Haddock meanwhile reaches for his twohander, his fingers hovering at the grip in threat against the fourth demon, daring it to attack but even it is intelligent enough not to bridge the gap lest it taste his oversized blade.

Two on one, Geralt dances and pivots between the monsters as they try to devour him, each twirl cutting at the enemies. Ducking, rolling, uppercutting with steel, one of the demon’s reel back in pained fury and Geralt tries the unprecedented — to his feet faster than human could attempt, he slashed the demon across the mouth and grapples at its flapping jaws, twisting it into the path of the oncoming 2nd.

…and the 2nd falls into the gaping chasm of the first’s mouth, gone from this plane, and though the first seems to grow in size, it isn’t long for this world as Geralt drives his steel through its malformed skull and dragging the blade backward with a nauseating crunch. Dropping to the ground, still unaware it’s actually dead, it gawks in gutteral shock as Geralt tends to the others with breakneck speed.

Aard to the face, a concussive gust, and the demon facing Haddock goes spinning only to meet Geralt’s two hand strike, cleaving neck from torso just as the three soldier tackling their own demon manage to fell their own foul creature. The weakest of the four, the last breaks down almost instantly, becoming but a black stain upon the ground that whispers of what it once was.

The other dead demons, they’ve yet to break down…

…they’re made of sterner will.

“Secure these men!,” Geralt barks while punching the affected in the face, knocking as many out as he can because some among them have already gotten the compulsion to chew on their gloves — some straight through and to the fingers within. As Geralt continues in his task, the three soldiers look to their leader, uncertain until even he relents, agreeing “bind their hands behind their backs, gag them to keep from swallowing their own damn tongues” and sheathes his sword before helping as well.

Between the five of them, punching and pommel striking the cursed is made quick work of, those sixteen affected restrained for their own safety, however, Franco, Haddock, and the woman won’t take their eyes off the Witcher. Zero now of that already little trust, all thanks to his little display of offensive signs back there. The elf though, looking to his comrades squirming about like worms — even unconscious they gnaw at their gags — he at least has sense enough to state “Ser! We’ve no def-f-fense here. Too open. There was a cave opening a ways back. Perhaps we can drag them there for the night?”

Still glaring at Geralt, Haddock questions back “assuming the effects wear off on their own?”

“What other option do we have?,” the roguish woman questions in kind, wiping her daggers across a dead patch of grass.

Eyes narrowing, Haddock asks his officers “how do we know this one won’t turn on us as well?” of Geralt and the Witcher answers “you don’t but there’s only five of us. I start eating the scenery, kill me yourself.”

“A better proposition, I’ve never heard,” Franco comments spitefully, never having trusted Geralt in the first place.

“...Fine,” Haddock states but then slowly turns toward the elf, not willing to let the White Haired one leave his periphery, “now about this cave…”

…So as the others discuss the hows of dragging sixteen men and women to a cave, Geralt thinks to himself while staring to the darkening skies, ignoring the gnashing of teeth of restrained soldiers, ‘ _not dead yet, Yen_ …’

Obviously there’s no answer back.

“Hmm…”

**______**

‘ _Wake up,’_ a familiar voice whispers through his sleeping mind and with a cold huff, Geralt tears his eyes open — on instinct alone, he swiftly draws and hurls his steel sword off into the dark of the cave, somehow skewering a giant spider dead in the face with a wet crunch and a chittering squeal. As it goes limp, legs curling, Geralt goes to rise with a sore groan, to retrieve the blade, but it’s then he happens upon a much curiouser sight. A dark form looms over one of the gagged men, fumbling at their side.

A few quiet steps closer…

Cat eyes kick in, pupils dilating with mutagenic potential...

Lieutenant Haddock, some twenty feet away, he’s trying and failing to undo the restraints of one lunatic soldier, muttering “soft squishy sticks. Work, damn you!” most angrily to himself as his digits bend awkwardly at the clasps.

“Haddock,” is all Geralt growls, knowing for certain something’s off and the officer freezes up, coughing “what is it, man?”

“What’re you doing?,” the Witcher questions, every word a threat as his fingers touch to his second sword’s grip.

“Checking after my men,” Haddock replies cooly, as if that’s the only possibility, “this one nearly dislocated his arm trying to get loose. Just tightening the straps.” Keen eyes prove more telling than any words — even from here he can see there’s no twist or bruising, no unnatural bend to the affected and he says as much, “No. he didn’t.”

“Yes, he did,” Haddock replies coldly as the muffled gnashing of teeth echoes unpleasantly through the cave, all the affected chomping hungrily at their gags. Whipping silver free, his blade singing, he holds the sword as if it were a dagger, imitating a praying mantis as he growls in threat. A problem though, the remaining three awaken, all witness as the lieutenant loudly and innocently questions “WHAT TRAITOROUS ACT IS THIS, ABOMINATION?! I SAW YOU UNDOING THEIR BINDINGS. DID YOU SEEK TO UNLEASH THEM UPON US IN OUR SLEEP??”

_Shit._

Franco, Daggers, and the Elf leap to, ready to kill — one looses their arrow but Geralt darts and grabs the lieutenant by his throat. Using the superior officer as a shield, he levels his sword tip just under Haddock’s jawline. “Easy…easy now” the old soldier cautions “let’s...not be…rash…” And then testing a theory, geralt jams the flat of his blade against tender neck and whatever’s inside the lieutenant yowls something fierce as silver kisses flesh — the man’s mouth splits wide, tearing through cheek meat as it furiously gapes “ **YOU WRETCHED THING** ” and the men in his command double back in horror, “ **YOU’VE RUINED MY FAVORITE SUIT** ” and kicking out his legs, knocking him to the hard cave floor, Geralt rasps “what was your plan then?” with his blade to the evidently possessed. Eyes narrowed, recognizing its disadvantages, the thing in the lieutenant hisses “ **why would I divulge such precious informa** …” but the silver blade jabs and the demon within screeches in pain, stabbed in the shoulder.

“Talk. Now.”

Struggling for breath but unable to resist and already pushing back as far as it can, it reticently hisses “.. **push.. until they weaken. Until..they freeze. Until they drop and die upon their knees. Until they’re food for the taking, a feast of my making. Piece by piece, the Inquisition I’m breaking.** ”

“Ser??,” a soldier panics, clumsily drawing at their bow string.

“and of course it fucking rhymes,” Geralt growls, ready to cut down the possessed until it cackles horridly “ **When you build my pyre, make it big enough for you all to join me** ” and snaps its own neck, crumpling, dead upon the cold stone floor.

“What in-in the Maker’s name!?”

“Demon.”

“But lieutenant Haddock!?”

Crouching down, investigating, the Witcher rips open the former lieutenant’s coat and prods at the stomach… and there’s the evidence; two stab wounds about a week old, just under the ribcage, rot kept at bay by only the bitter chill of the Frostbacks. “Dead a while,” Geralt answers and rolls the corpse, studying the slightly off white eyes, “sometime after we left Haven.”

“How,” the woman with twin daggers asks, “and why didn’t we notice?”

“Too cold to smell. Bundled up. Usually hard snow. But right here,” he rasps, leaning back to show the rest, “claws, long probing. The kind that curve up. Gets at protected vitals easier.”

“We need to burn him,” a swordsman demands, lowering his blade, and the woman from before, she asks “do you think its influence is affecting our men?”

“Him,” the swordsman worries of their lieutenant but she denies him that, stating “ _it_. Well?”

Peering back at those restrained, the Witcher can only speculate “looks like they’re calming down. Should wait til dawn, check on em then.” Sure enough, those formerly gnashing spasming, those belted and lashed, they’ve already slipped into a deep slumber, going slack jawed and limp. “Sleep in shifts,” Geralt growls, weary from the long night, the restless sleep he cut short, everything it’d seem. Fortunately, the dagger lady states “I’m taking first watch.”

“Whatever floats your boat,” Geralt muses colloquially, already sliding back to sleep upright against the cave wall, “wake me when you’re ready.”

Though one soldier spits at Geralt’s feet, Daggers adamantly states “done” and takes up a prime position eyeing the mouth of the cave despite her swordsman gawking out “Betts?”

“Adapting to the demands of the situation,” she replies with just a sliver of fatigue slipping through her steely demeanor. Propped on a boulder, blades resting on her thighs in case the need arises, she goes quiet and the Elven bowman stutters “f-f-fine” and makes his retreat.

“Fendril?,” the swordsman stammers out, surprised by both his fellow soldiers.

“It’s done, F-franco.”

_Nerves or trouble with F’s…_

Tromping in over into his own little corner, this Franco grumbles “Siding with one demon over another…”

“Not a demon,” Geralt growls, eyes shut — the insistent little shit goes quiet finally.

Seems to be the demon was working with the ones from before. Makes sense now in retrospect, why he hadn’t fought the Hungers, why he wanted to use up resources…

_Fuck this world._

**______**

True to the original hypothesis, by dawn not a one showed signs of being consumed with uncontrollable hunger. Not a soul gnashed their teeth with a desperate madness in their eyes. The affectations of the demons had subsided though more than a few were busy rubbing at their sore teeth or weary jaws.

The bigger surprise was finding out that the Witcher —the man reviled by most this entire mission — had been the one to save them. Lieutenant Haddock dead, possessed, and slain again boggles the minds of more than a few but despite Fendril and Betts saying such, it’s the reticent grumblings of Franco confirming such a tale that truly cements the story as fact.

But the fact remains, food rations are nonexistent.

Remaining water was guzzled down in the frenzy.

And now on empty stomachs, they’re all on the long walk home; destination Haven…

**______**

A few less curses and slurs this day toward our dear witcher. That as least is a small ray of sunshine in this bleak reality of imminent starvation, demons, and a week out through mountainous terrain in freezing temperatures. But, take a win where he can.

Hours of marching through the all white…

…slippery footing….

Keeping talk to a minimum.

No need to provoke an avalanche this day. No one wants that as they make their way through the pass…

But in the distance, a crackle on the breeze, it almost sounds like an inviting fire in the hearth…

To Geralt, there’s the unmistakable and intoxicating aroma of juniper, beckoning.

If anyone else smells it, not a one has said a word…

Only then, sweet goes rotten, sulfur heavy in his nostrils. A gash of nauseating green splits the air like a sideways smile, vile and belching out terrible Fade fire. In an instant, nearby snows flash cook, splashing, becoming quick currents at everyone’s feet as a scattered few errant pines warp from the heat. The rift surges and the mountains shudders in response…

But they can’t flee.

The mission stays the same — secure the rifts. Even as poorly as this mission has gone, being led astray, the rift must be contained until Idrilla can return to seal it.

And then the denizens of Hell tear their way through…

With a cacophony of screeches, hollow whistles and guttural roars, demons burst forth in a blaze of green — Horrors big and small, an pair of Envy demons, Fears, and several Despairs come swinging hard, clawing and sobbing, freezing and rending, but this time, we’ve got the numbers…

Swords clash with claws and Geralt does sprinting, leaping through the air and narrowly missing a a frosty Despair — but in passing, acting quick, he casts Igni right into its crying cowl. Erupting with flames, it screams in midair, trying to draw upon the cold but two blades free, Geralt whirlwinds through the damn demon. A Greater Terror goes hollow and phases through the ground — Minaeve warmed Geralt of this — and he casts Yrden at his feet while driving his silver point first into the ground. With an ear grating screech, the ghastly creature of varying green and spines, it phases in beneath him only to get locked in place with a sword piercing its gnarly toothy head. With a sickening crunch, Geralt twists the blade and black ichor jets from the gaping ragged lobotomy…

Arrows whiz through the air.

Swords arc high.

More than a few daggers spin across the battle, finding their home in the chests and backs of several demons more.

Another Terror swipes at the Witcher but he parries hard, deflecting the long, jagged arms before hacking and whacking at the creature’s joints — parting limbs from body with three hard strikes, he leaves the Terror a writhing mess upon the ground.

“ **WEAKLINGS** ,” roars a malicious tongue from the depths of the rift, the slice in space time expanding, contorting to vent whatever now seeks passage, “ **MORTALS ARE BUT KINDLING FOR MY RAGE**.”

“GODDAMNIT!,” is all Geralt roughly blurts while swiftly hacking down four more lesser demons on his way to murder a 5th — the thing tearing through the rift couldn’t have been any clearer announcing what it is. As he cuts down a 6thhorror, a group of soldiers are trying to take on a Fear, it’s body a writhing mass, it’s flesh a hive of insects, but those seven men and women have that awful fucking _thing_ surrounded at least…Geralt can face down the fresh hell of fire and fury clawing its way into this reality.

…only he sheathes both swords…

And claw it does, its molten eyes locking onto the Witcher, its glowing pupils quite literally drip magma — though the very ground hisses in protest beneath the the demon as it bubbles and rises to its full and terrible height, Geralt growls “Damn you’re ugly,” snatches up a dead soldier’s sword to test…unfortunately two soldiers charge the Rage, swords primed to kill and like water, it roars its napalm breath down upon them.

Steel liquifies and bodies within ignite, crumbling to ash before even hitting the angry ground.

‘ _Good to know_ ,’ he considers as he goes sprinting at the monster. It tries belching another burst of napalm but he quickly sidesteps, and though it swipes at his face with rending claws of pure inferno, he casts Yrden, stopping it dead in its tracks long enough to drag the pilfered sword across its guts. Steel goes red hot, splashing off the hellbeast and if not for his Kaer Morhen gear, he’d be at a loss of a forearm. Rather fortunately though, another Despair dances away from a group right into his path and grappling the damned thing, he pivots and rams the weeping bastard into the Rage. Both monsters scream and roar as their core differences steam and bubble — though the Despair dies outright, the Rage goes hunched, gasping for more air to relight its life fire as its flesh darkens and cracks….

 _Now_.

Both swords swing loose of their holsters and with lethal force, Geralt eviscerates the Rage, it’s rapidly cooly guts pouring out and splashing across the snow and dirt…. Struggling to cling to this realm, to fight, instead it doubles over, its eyes going black and all the fire within extinguishes…

“…by the Maker’s hand,” a downed soldier gawks up at a gore caked Witcher from his place in the red splattered snow, steam still hissing off it.

Those left alive don’t know how to process…

Several killed, but more alive than dead. That’s something.

“He may be a monster…,” Franco mutters as Geralt wipes ichor off his face and spits.

“Yeah?,” Betts asks, expecting more.

“What?”

“You got more to add? Sounded like you did.”

“Andraste’s…,” Franco grumbles, hating to be put on the spot, he admits “…but he’s at least our monster.”


	9. Chapter 9

Returns horns blare across Haven and those huddled masses in the tavern perk up, some actually planting their drink to the tables in wait. One or two rise, perhaps it’s the Herald back so soon…only with a hard kick of the door, winter winds gusting through the building, scattering a nearby game of Wicked Grace, our grizzled witcher stomps on in with heavy steps, his armor jingling ever so. As he hunches over the bar and drops both swords atop the surface — many an eye upon the white haired man — a lady bard nervously leaps at the chance to ask “is it true? You killed thirty demons single handedly??”

 _‘Thirty? How the hell did gossip get here so quickly?,’_ is what he ponders grouchily but instead he brusquely growls “Half that” while trying to wave down Flissa the barmaid even as she all too obviously avoids eye contact.

“I would love the chance to hear the details,” she hints at, sitting her lute in an empty chair, “the power of a good story is an incredible th…”

“Fuck off. Already got one bard I can’t get rid of” he rasps and slaps coin to the bar, growling “bath.” Sure, of course, _that_ Flissa sees — sweeping back around and snatching up the handful of coppers, she waves to a dark haired elf girl in her employ who’s swift to approach Geralt, stating “if you would, please follow me.” Guiding him to one of the meager back rooms, he finds a washroom with a repurposed cask for a tub. Shaving soap and a razor on a chair, the bath waters look secondhand but at this point, he couldn’t care less.

After peeling his gloves and armor off, dropping each item to the floor in an disorganized pile, he plunges a hand into the bath water, grumbling “hmmmm” under his breath. The elf, she’s quick to say “I can start a fire, heat it up for you!” but Geralt, not exactly caring about discretion after everything that was revealed during the Frostbacks expedition, he signs Igni several times underwater, writing fire into the bath. As the surface steams and bubbles roil, the elf girl gawks in shock, whispering “the rumors _were_ true.”

“What’s the source of the rumors?,” he questions while shaking his arm dry and undoing his padded shirt.

“Oh…,” the girl answers meekly, looking about uncomfortably as if a spy could be lurking even now behind a crate or cask, “…they say…the spymaster has eyes everywhere”

“And the reality?”

“Oh, she really does have her agents everywhere.”

“Hmm,” he groans and undoes his trousers — and she averts her eyes — before slipping into the tub. Once hidden halfway beneath the dingy water, she returns her gaze only to linger on the roadmap of scars crisscrossing and dotting his muscled form before coughing “oh, ahem” and grabs a scrub brush from atop a crate. Nothing new to him, the staring, he gives a casual wave and asks “if its extra for a shave, I’ve got the coin…”

**______**

Smooth faced. Mostly clean. Half ponytail redone. Forced to wear his filthy clothes for lack of another set but we make do with what we have. Though the ale was garbage before, most anything is better than nothing so he leaves the tavern with gear over one arm, wrapped package tucked into the other, swords hanging over his shoulders, and a drink in hand. Odd still, the quiet respect the people of Haven seem to be giving him — far fewer insults, much more outright avoidance.

He can deal with avoidance. Makes things easier.

Tromping on into the chantry and down into the cellar, careful of his step, avoiding a low hanging iron chandelier and entering Minaeve’s workspace, he finds the elf furiously penning notes in what he can only assume to be the common of this world…

At least, the scratch marks and strokes look the same as everything else written.

Careful with his awkward armfuls, he manages to drop the wrapped package on her observation table, startling her from her work. “Ar’din nuvenin na’din, Geralt!” she threatens, dabbing her sleeve at some blotching ink on the parchment, “and Maker, you smell...stale.”

He doesn’t know what that first bit meant, just the tone.

“What’s this?,” she asks of his apparent gift as he takes a sniff of his shirt before undoing it, revealing it to be several individual wrapped chunks of demon as if fresh from the butchers block.

Then again, he _is_ the Butcher…

“Amazing,” Minaeve drops everything to go rummaging through the collection of body parts, “Despair cloak… Terror teeth… An actual piece of a cooled Rage?! And? Wait, what is this?”

“Think it’s a Fear demon.”

“Fear demon skin. Amazing,” she immediately slides her sketchbook over to illustrate the grotesque matter, “it looks as if its still crawling and squirming…”

“Got a few notes for you, if you want…”

“Always.”

“You shove a Despair into a Rage, it apparently kills both or damn near close to it.”

Wide eyed, looking up at the Witcher, Minaeve gasps “Amazing.”

“If a Hunger has it’s mouth open enough, they can swallow lesser Hungers whole.”

“Good to know!,” she scribbles down notes.

“If you get past the black goo, there’s a weird amount of treasure inside most,” Geralt admits and drops his coin purse to the table, showing off the single gold piece, the silvers, and plethora of coppers, all still stained with veins of black.

“Fascinating. I’d heard tales but to know it’s true,” Minaeve speculates, “ wonder, do they swallow the coins or do they manifest around them? Are they even real? Why that specifically? Perhaps emotion and want drive the demons toward such treasures, because they are typically base in nature?”

“Wouldn’t know about all that. But if it’s fake, I guess I better go spend it before it dissolves,” Geralt grumbles and takes his leave, swiping the coin purse as he does. Through the dank hallway, up the dim stairs, he enters the main chantry only to find several of those Templar folk in waiting. Hands readied at their swords, their shields already up, the foremost of them demands “you will follow, creature.”

“This shit again?”

“Now,” he demands.

He shrugs as best he can given he’s holding his equipment and a bad drink still but he calmly exits as if this were any other day. One at the front and three at his rear, they march him the short distance to the Spymaster’s tent and as they shove him inside, barring his exit, he growls sarcastically “appreciate the escort. What a journey” and within, Leliana and Cullen are waiting.

“Take a seat,” the redhead says somewhat politely but there’s an edge to it. Always the case with her, nothing’s up front. At least the Commander is blunt, especially when he demands “now.”

Obliging, dropping his gear to the ground next to the chair, he takes his seat and sips at the warm ale. Nope, still as bad tasting as last time. Whoever it brewing with dirt and clay needs to get their shit together.

“We have questions,” Leliana states and Geralt takes another forced sip.

“About the expedition,” Cullen specifies but Geralt takes another sip, indifferent to the this low stakes witch hunt. “Maker,” Cullen groans and knocks the swill out of Geralt’s hand — with a raised brow and slight tilt of his head, Geralt studies the spilt beverage before casually dropping the now empty mug as well. “In your own words, tell us what happened,” Leliana demands.

“As opposed to…?” Geralt quips with a particularly measured rasp but noting the Templars on edge, itching to draw blood, he answers “went on your mission. No one tried to murder me so that was a surprise.”

“We know about your magic, creature,” Cullen accuses and Leliana states “my agents witnessed you.”

“Your agents are shit,”he answers with a biting edge, “saw me casting not magic but didn’t see the demon murder Haddock? Professional work.”

She goes silent, glaring in her observation and study but the commander demands “and what _did_ happen?!”

“He died twice?”

“No! Where is your proof? How did you know him possessed?,” Cullen yells in question and clutches tightly at his left hand. Another blast of the return horns sound, blaring out across the camp, but Cullen isn’t finished. _This_ isn’t done. Accusatory, he demands again “what evidence did you have?”

“Hmmmmm,” Geralt lets out a low growl and closes his eyes. He’s had enough of this. Best chance of cutting it short is to be patient. As he does so, he can’t help but spy his satchel on Leliana’s desk, the one he could’ve sorely used in those frigid passes.

 _‘So that’s where she put it,’_ Geralt notes before realizing ‘... _Boots hurrying toward the church?’_

“Answer, damnit!”

_Two pair. One taller than the other and wearing plate…_

_“_ ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING?!”

_Saved._

Idrilla shoves her way through the Templars, some retreating in recognition, one stuck in place, visibly nervous to the point of being stuck in place, and with a huff of brogue, she loudly asks “uhhh is this the new woor room?”

An awkward silence fills the tent as all parties are uncertain just what to say…

Noo? Then come on!” she fires off, “wanna get this over with. Ma feet ar killing me.”

Cassandra is less vocal, eyeing the three suspiciously, groaning “what did _he_ do?”

“Leliana and I will meet you there,” Cullen deflects but Idri doubles down, sternly asking once more “whit is this? I just said woor room.”

“There are matters here that need..”

“Woor. Room. I di’nt just hike and ride hundreds o’ miles fer fun.”

“We made contact with the Templars and Mages,” Seeker Cassandra informs.

“Wait, you actually succeeded?” Cullen seems surprised, hopeful even, but she corrects “we succeeded in making contact. That is all.. Grand Enchanter Fiona has invited us to have talks with the Rebel Mages in Redcliffe while Lord Seeker Lucius outright refuses our claim to authority….I understand this war is taking its toll but he was not himself. It was odd.”

“And we shouldn’t discuss anything further with so many prying ears,” Leliana advises but Idri complains “obviously that, yes, so everyone….,” and enunciating with claps, “Woor. Room. Now.”

“But we still need to question it!,” Cullen protests, “we need answers!”

“Not right now you don’t,” she shoots right back and he barks “And you aren’t in command, we have a council for all..”

“Then get yourself another elf tha’ can close a rift,” she dares him.

“Why are you so protective of this creature? What has it done to garner such trust??”

“Because unlike the rest o’ you, he hasn’t been an asshole,” the waif of an elf shuts him the fuck up, planting hands to hips and even her mark blazes with sympathetic upset. Cats got his tongue — finger up to make a point but failing to find it, he gawks until he sighs out in shame. Leliana, she merely lowers her face so you can’t see it for the shadows of her cowl and Cassandra, the seeker’s eyebrows rise high on her forehead but she doesn’t seem surprised. If anything, she seems understanding that they three were too brash with first introductions, enough so that she nods solemnly in silent agreement. Finally finding his to words, Cullen breathes “I just want to keep people safe.”

Softer now, more ready to meet him halfway at least, Idri comments “An’ I respect that…but from I’ve seen, the danger’s out there. Not in heer.” Though he doesn’t say anything more at the moment, he pounds his fist to chest and strides off toward the Chantry doors with Cassandra briskly stepping to walk beside him.

“You too,” Idri smirks, “get a move on” at the Witcher — indifferent to most of what just happened, he rises, growls by habit, and marches one along with her in the lead…

And Leliana follows behind, ever watching, ever studying…

**______**

“I just cannot believe she froze that man,” Cassandra comments of some soirée Geralt is all too glad to have missed out on.

“Is she…stable?,” The Commander hesitantly questions and Cassandra answers “he did draw his sword against the Herald.” with a shrug.

“Regardless, this Madame de Fer has quite the reputation, and though she’s a mage, she’s allegedly a Circle loyalist,” Josephine adds while reviewing her notes, “her presence could certainly cast the Inquisition in a more favorable light.”

“Unless our intention is to seek out the Templars, which I still believe is our best chance at permanently sealing the Breach,” Cullen presses — obviously a point hes made before — and though the others seem unimpressed, he persists, stating “Do not discount the Order…I know what Templars are truly capable of.”

It’s then that Leliana slips closer to the table, addressing “the point remains, we still have options. I believe we should at least meet with the mages. According to my agents, the bulk of them are holed up in Redcliffe Village. There are, however, reports of foreign magics bear the gates.”

‘ _If Triss did land here, she would first seek out her own,_ ’ Geralt mulls over, ‘ _Mages. Sorcerers. Whatever. That’s where she’d go.’_

“It’s a refuge for mages. Mages,” Cullen gripes and shoved back from the map, “is it any wonder? Besides, if we meet with them, surely word will reach the Templars and then we’ll lose our shot with them.”

“So make a choice,” Geralt groans, forcing the issue, “this back and forth is grating,” and then he flicks a beetle off the corner of the map. Much to everyone’s surprise, Seeker Cassandra actually says “I…agree,” and noting everyone’s expression of hurt or confusion, she amends it by commenting “not the grating part. The…ughh… the choice part.”

Level heads win out though when Josephine asks “Should we put it to a vote? All hands for the Templars?”

Cullen’s hand launches up and Cassandra is slow to raise hers.

“And those for meeting the mages?”

Leliana and Idrilla are quick to raise hands — Josephine pauses, considering unspoken variables, but ultimately she raises hers as well.

Geralt’s not raising his hand either way — by habit he has to at least pretend to be a neutral party. Besides, he only has one horse in this race and it’s finding Triss. That they voted in favor of what happens to be his preferred choice, that’s just golden.

As such, he abstains even when Josie and Idrilla look to him. “Not part of this,” he lies and to that Cullen actually agrees with him for once, grumbling “has that much sense at least,” irritated the vote didn’t go his way….

“Then that’s settled. We will meet the mages and hear their demands,” Josephine continues, “now onto other matters. Leliana, you have the floor.”

“Thank you,,” she replies, “in the Fallowmire to the South East, I’ve received reports that many of our men have been abducted. It is said by an Avaar tribe who takes umbrage with you, Herald.”

“Why me?,” she groans in response and Leliana states “if accurate, it is because you are blessed. They wish to challenge you, by which they mean Andraste.”

“Can’t I just agree with ‘em an’ end it? You all already know I don’t believe…wasn’t raised in your chantries,” Idrilla complains and Cass rolls her eyes, offering “Even so, you have come to represent the faith to many” with a slight frown.

Changing battle plans, Cullen reports “We’ve taken losses on the Storm Coast. A faction calling themselves the Blades of Hessarian,” and following a dismissive groan, adds “it may prove prudent to investigate. We don’t know their numbers but we cannot let a direct attack go unanswered. As a fledgling order, we need all the status we can muster.”

“See, okay, tha’ sounds like something I’m good at,” Idrilla nods at the prospect, eyeing the map as Cullen points it out for her.

“You should also know the Fallowmire is a swamp,” he adds and her nose wrinkles. “The Storm Coast,” he continues to explain, “is aptly named.”

“Dibs on tha’ one,” she’s quick to claim, “I’ll uh…what’s the word Josie?”

“Delegate,” the radiant woman answers, knowing exactly and inexplicably what word is needed.

“Yes. That. Delegate. When Vivienne shows up, she can have tha’ mission. Give ‘er soldiers ta take cause who better than an ice mage to deal with a swamp?” Finally, a side to the commander previously unseen — he gets a kick out Herald Idrilla’s plan, audibly letting slip a snort of amusement.

“If there’s any rifts, avoid em and I’ll go there later? So…tha’s tha’?,” the Herald asks and pointing to Geralt and Cassandra, “I’ll take you an’ you an’ maybe Solas. Maybe Varric shud go with Vivienne? Ah know she cud just blast a lock ta bits but whit if she needs one picked?”

Amused now herself, Cassandra smirks “he’ll absolutely hate it. How perfect.”

“Anything more?,” Josephine asks, ready to conclude the minutes for this meeting but Idrilla blurts “oh! We apparently have the Red Jenny thing on our side?” and Cass rolls her eyes even harder, groaning “you can’t be serious.”

“Whit? Are they bad or something?,” the Herald asks in earnest, “never heard o’ em but she seemed nice enough. Didn’t like me being an elf all tha’ much but she seemed gud all the same.”

Leliana, ever informed, she comments “they are a criminal organi...no, less an organization and more a motley group bent on, for lack of better term, screwing over nobles. In my time during the Fifth Blight, we encountered a number of their dead drops though we never met face to face…”

“Okay then,” the Herald shrugs but Geralt growls out “Triss Merigold. Instead of interrogating me, what have you found on her? Sightings. Rumors. Anything.“

”Nothing as of yet,” Leliana leers at the man and once more brings up “as far as interrogations go, Witcher, there’s still the matter of your spellwork.” Of course that gets the elf’s attention — eyes wide, she excitedly gasps “AH KNEW YOU CUD DO _SOMETHING_!”

“Wait, you knew??,” Cullen groans and she’s quick to say “well yeah, he tried ta help me in th’ dungeon when I was in pain. Thought I saw him wiggle his fingers!”

Reticent to reveal anything, Geralt slowly answers “………axii. It calms.” but Cassandra worries “it affects the mind? That…sounds like blood magic” to which Josephine posits “or at the very least an affront to the chantry. Perhaps don’t…do that…sign? Am I saying that correctly?”

He nods, his face a stony one as he grumbles “not good with it anyway” and Cullen grumbles “Maker” not so under his breath. “Interstin’,” Idrilla beams with a devilish look, “I wanna see whit you can do!” but the spymaster clears her throat, asking “a word in private?” As the elf girl groans and holds back, the rest pack up and leave though at the threshold, Geralt does comment “later” before closing the door. That earns him a smile from the elf, a scowl from the spymaster…

It’s straight back to the bar for now. He’s got coin to spend that may or may not have an expiration date…

_Get gear from the tent..._

_Drink._

_Then sharpen and oil blades._

_Yes…_

As he saunters on out, free and clear of the church, he notices Cassandra in talks with a short haired mercenary at the edge of the steps, armor clanking, in need of oil. And though he hears mention of “Storm Coast,” he couldn’t give two shits. Still dour from the lack of news regarding his ally and way home, he’s hellbent on getting drunk.


	10. Chapter 10

“Old man winter,” Varric comments, dragging his thick hands through the air in display, trying to put a positive spin on his nicknames, “look, if you don’t tell me your backstory, I’m gonna have to riff on this nickname business.”

“Hmmmmmmmm”

“Your funeral,” Varric chuckles with an enormous smile, “SNOWFLAKE!”

Geralt lets out a sigh. As if on cue, Flissa slides another drink into his hand. A stronger one. And she plucks a couple coppers from his open coin purse sitting on the bar. Spend while you can with demon money…

“Oooh, u do Snowball yet?,” a choppy haired elf asks as she slips up to the bar all the while shooting a devious look the barmaid but Varric argues “no, no. Too close to snowflake. How about Ice Queen?” Trying his best to tune them out, he stares deep into his drink. Nothing there but his own muddied reflection. As the elf purrs her thanks upon getting her ale, she notices the Witcher’s face and coughs out “oooph, the face on this one, am I rite? Real scary sort, yeah.”

“No, hehehe, he’s loads of fun,” Varric jokes, “anyone that can push Curly’s buttons like he can is alright in my book.”

“U mean the _ser pretty boy_ in the tin can? Stick up the butt?”

“That’s the one.”

“Pfffbbb,” she snorts, spitting a bit of beer out, “too perfect. Fine then, this one’s on my good side for now.”

Eyes still closed, Geralt pounds his dark liquor and tries to focus on anything but these two. And the fact they already seem to be fast friends is all the more irritating…

“Heard he can do magic too. What a catch.”

“Mm nope, nevermind,” Sera groans and eases back, “on my bad side now” and she goes back to making eyes with the barmaid. Varric though, he can’t let it go and continues on to say “maybe blizzard? Hmm, no. Too on the nose.”

 _Don’t say anything_ …

“Not, not Blizzard….not my best.

_Just…leave it, Geralt._

“Snow White!”

_Don’t…_

“Hmm, no.. Kitty? Puss peepers? Hmm, sounds a bit dirty but I’m on the right track.”

“Hmmmmmm,” Geralt growls out in agitation, “already got names. Don’t need another, dwarf.”

_Definitely don’t want puss peepers to stick_

“Boring guy like you? Not a chance,” the dwarf chuckles out in amusement, trying to needle his way into some secrets, “alright, let’s hear em.”

“Butcher of Blaviken.”

“What in the Maker’s holy ass is a blaviken? No, no good. Sure, it’s got alliteration but nah, no, not catchy enough.”

“Gwynbleidd.”

“Nah, too edgy.”

“…White Wolf,” Geralt sighs at the admission, his medallion vibrating still in reaction to the Breach.

“Hmm, white wolf,” Varric tries it out, getting a feel for it, “white..wolf? White wolf. Not bad. Could do in a pinch. I suppose it’s a decent enough placeholder until a better one comes to me,” and waves a two fingers at Flissa. As if by magic, or more likely the potency of reputation coupled with his being a frequent patron, two amber ales slide down the bar and come to stop just before the dwarf. Chuckling under his breath, he slides one to Geralt and comments “don’t let it be said I’m not a good sport” and with a wink, he pounds his drink, hops off his stool, and saunters on over to his familiar nook, a few sheets of parchment and a quill still sitting undisturbed. Patrons of this less than fine establishment certainly seem know that spot to is his.

Spinning on his own stool, Geralt growls across the bar “You a bard?”

“If you’re asking whether I tell stories, then the answer is yes. If you’re asking if I sing, however, Andraste’s ass the answer is a hard no. No one wants that.”

“Hmm…,” Geralt raises his glass and nods slightly. A sign of approval. To that, Varric smirks, flips out his reading spectacles, and can’t help but chuckle as he takes to penning, “I’ll get you talking White Wolf, just you wait.” To that, the lady bard from before, she’s positively glowering, envious as all get out. But that’s the rub of it — doesn’t need anymore songs about himself, especially skewed as they were on the details because details don’t matter in the face of a rhyme scheme…

**______**

With the roads made safer during Idrilla’s previous visit, Inquisition soldiers now patrolling the areas surrounding The Hinterlands, it’s been but a couple days travel. Throughout it all, every weathered stone, every fairy ring of toadstools, every crumbling tower, that Solas can’t help but comment on their nature, their histories…

“What tales they may hold.”

‘Sorcerers will be sorcerers,’ Geralt sighs inwardly as night slowly descends on the valley. Though Seeker Cassandra can roll her eyes and scoff at the elf, Geralt knows better than to pick fights with those who wield magic…

Chaos…

Whatever the fuck it is that’ll transmute, destroy, and ruin lives…

“So why this detour? As pleasant as the Hinterlands _can_ be, surely the Inquisition can maintain things in your absence,” Solas comments but the Herald Lavellan answers “Leliana asked me ta track down a grey warden. Apparently he’s bin seen around heer?”

Solas lets out a long enough “hmmmmm” that he almost sounds like Geralt — the Witcher though, he says “Should I even ask?” and Cassandra replies “oh, that’s right. You do not know… Grey Wardens are an order dedicated to combatting the Darkspawn and their Blight.”

“Which are….”

“They are the Maker’s punishment for the magisters breaking into the Golden City,” she explains though from Geralt’s less than impressed expression, clearly still in need of information or lore, Solas offers “Darkspawn are those corrupted and controlled by the Blight. Monstrous, they seek out the Old Gods to corrupt them in turn which will give rise to a true Blight.”

“Spymaster mentioned the…Fifth Blight?”

“Yes,” Cassandra states, “she fought at the Hero of Ferelden’s side to put an end to it…”

“Hero of…”

“The Nation you are presently standing in,” Solas smirks while stepping through some brush and up a narrow path.

“Hmmm, right.”

“You and she do not seem to be on good terms,” Cassandra advises in regards to Geralt and Leliana, “so do not tell her I told you this…she and Warden Aria Amell…” with Idrilla leaning in to whisper “the hero o’ Ferelden” and Cassandra goes on to explain “they were romantically involved until the Hero’s death. It is a Warden’s duty to slay the Archdemon — without their sacrifice, the Archdemon will resurrect in the body of another Darkspawn…”

Solas huffs, clearly wanting to add or correct, but he keeps his mouth shut…

“Hmmm,” Geralt hums while following up the path behind them, trying not to snap branches in passing lest they leave evidence for anyone that may be tracking them in kind. Dangerous times and all that. It isn’t long now until they come upon the ruddy shores of a small lake — Rams trot in the distance, seeking shelter for the night — and a solitary fire glows on the other side. Quietly, they make their approach, crossing the docks and walkways until arriving at an abandoned cabin, the door blown off its hinges, and several corpses stacked in a pile, dead from blood loss, multiple slashes and stab wounds…

Cautiously, they round the corner, only a grizzled voice beckons “either come to the fire and say your piece or be prepared to die” with a sharp scrape of whetstone on oiled steel. They four enter the fire’s glow and seated upon a stump is burly man in full plate, griffons hammered into the metalwork — though his winged helm and shield sit beside him glinting in the fire’s glow, his longsword is ready enough and through his dark bushy beard, he urges “Well?”

“Warden…Blackwall?,” Idrilla questions, keeping her hands tightly clasped together to stifle the Fade light leaking from the mark.

“And how do you know my name?,” he questions and scrapes his steel yet again, it crying out eerily in the dark with only the mountain pass to echo it, “you’re no farmer, no one I’ve trained.”

“Suppose I’m an agent o’ the Inquisition. Call me Idrilla. Got a question or two if you dunt mind.”

Though he eyes the other three with suspicion, his stare falls hard upon the Witcher, sizing him up, but after a moments pause, he says “…then ask.”

“Sooo,” the Elven woman starts, palms still tightly pressed, “we’re investigatin’ whether ‘r not Grey Wardens have a connection to the death o’ the Divine. I mean, you all disappear the minute a hole opens in the sky…some people might find that suspicious.”

“Maker’s Balls,” he curses, rising from his stump with a confused scowl set upon his grizzled face, “Wardens and the Divine? No…you wouldn’t be asking if you had proof. First off, I didn’t know we’d disappeared — we do that — no Blight, job done, we’re the first thing forgotten, but one thing I’ll tell you…” Stabbing a gloved finger her way, he commands “Wardens did _not_ kill the Divine. Our purpose isn’t political.”

His heartbeat stills, his pupils dilating, the hairs in his inner ear standing at attention, Geralt hones in on this warden and can’t note any changes in breathing, no quickening of pulse. By all accounts, what he’s said is his truth at least…

“Look, wasn’t my lead,” Idrilla defends, “was just asked ta look into it. Now I have. So uhhh, thas it?”

“Ughh,” scoffs the Seeker, “we came this far for that?” and Idrilla shrugs, uncertain what to say. Blackwall though, his brow furrowing in the fire light, he questions in turn “Wait…uh, Idrilla you said? You’re part of an inquisition?” Pursed lips, she nods at that and he goes on to say “The Divine’s dead and the sky torn. In times like these, thinking we’re absent is as bad as thinking we’re involved.”

“How?,” Geralt questions under his breath but the Seeker jams him with her elbow and he growls instead.

“If you’re trying to put things right, maybe you _need_ a Warden. Maybe you need me,” Blackwall offers, inspecting his blade a moment before sheathing it at his side, “…if pressed, you only need one to save the fucking world.” To that end, he extends a hand… Head tilted, eyeing the bear of a man at an angle, she frees her hands and gladly shakes his, although, as she says “Welcome to the Inquisition” her left hand beams out green light and the Warden gawks in shock at the impossible.

“Sooo, truth be told, they call me the Herald o’ Andraste. Not my choice. Frankly, I hate it. That’s ma magic hand. Closes rifts. Now you’re in th’ know,” she overwhelms with a smirk and though it takes him a minute to process, Blackwall finally gapes out “Wait…that’s you? And here I thought you’d be uhhh….” but he loses his taste for words.

“Taller? Blonde? Oooh, you mean uh shem don’t you?,” she continues her smirk, not yet letting go of his hand.

“Forgive me,” he immediately apologizes and bows, “it was a stupid thought.”

“Can’t blame ya. Loads more of your kind around than mine,” she replies and ending the much too long handshake, she looks to the others and asks “camp here for the night?”

“I don’t see why not. I’ll set some wards,” Solas says and traipses off into the dark, modest staff in hand. The Seeker, she grumbles “ _you_ can see in the dark; you’re on first watch” and shoves past the Witcher on her way back to the abandoned cabin, disappearing through the darkened doorway…

**______**

Roughly a mile until the coastline, you can smell the salt in the winds whipping through the trees, it’d almost be pleasant if not the for the pine needles pelting exposed skin as if fired with intent. The elves and the Seeker, they’re some fifty feet ahead…

Best not to bunch. Never know with an ambush.

“So Gerald,” Blackwall questions with rain increasingly bearing down on them, his winged helm belted to his side, “so what’s your business in all this? The Herald, she’s locked in for the long haul. That Solas fella, he’s clearly not going anyway until the mystery is solved. The Lady Seeker? This is a holy calling for her. But you? In three days you’ve barely said word, can’t figure out your reason.”

“Geralt,” he corrects while marching right through a deep puddle with indifference. Gonna be soaked through before they even see the sea. No point wasting energy avoiding it now.

“Geralt,” Blackwall tries out, making sure to enunciate, “Sorry. But my question still stands. What are you? You’re no soldier. Though you’ve got the stance of a mercenary, I doubt you’re in a band.”

“You…ask a lot of questions.”

“And that’s not an answer. Look, I just like to get a sense of who I’m fighting beside.”

The ground barely gurgles, long since drowned.

The mud yawns at their every heavy boot step.

The other three are still in range…

Weaker branches snap but it’s just the wind.

Finally the Witcher replies “trying to find my friend.”

“So you joined up with the Inquisition? Must be some friend.”

“Mhmm,” is Geralt’s noncommittal answer though ‘ _Likely the only one who can get us both home’_ passes by in thought.

“So what are you?,” the man questions through his sopping wet beard and Geralt casually replies “Witcher” with rain water streaming down his own face.

“I’ve heard Solas mention that word a few times but I’ve yet to understand its meaning.”

“Monster Hunter,” he gives the broadest of answers. No use wading through all that it means to be a witcher, not now. Though it sounds like Blackwall’s heartbeat flickers at that — curious — it’s the grumbling of disapproval he hears most audibly coming from the grizzled veteran when he questions “so you’re a thrill seeker.”

_Voices ahead…_

“No.”

“At the very least, you’re a bad conversationalist.”

“Mhmm.”

The two break from the wall of forest out onto a rocky outcropping overlooking the shore. Camouflaged with brush and branches, small tents stand tucked against the base a sheer rock face, hidden from much in all this storm and grey. A reconnaissance camp, though with less scouts than impromptu dwellings — some others still must be out investigating — there _is_ one among them that rises from the damp overlook, a dwarf. Can’t hear what’s being said but she’s saluting and chatting up the Herald. It’s only when Geralt and Blackwall join the little grouping that the dwarven scout hooks a thumb over her shoulder toward the beach, informing “so there’s a mercenary group over there. Just noticed them giving it to these Tevinter types. Wouldn’t get it in the middle of it if I were you…then again, you’re the Herald.”

“They are the Bull’s Charger’s,” Cassandra informs, “I spoke with their second in command and I believe they’d like us to consider this their audition for the Inquisition.”

“They certainly have good timing,” Solas comments, less than impressed and more than wary. To that, a tiny snort escapes this Scout Harding and she states “not a chance. They’ve been fighting off waves of them for days now. I’m guessing Tevinter hasn’t gotten the message yet. In fact…” but Geralt trudges off and away, finding a viewing spot on another cliff. Arms folded over a bizarre skull totem on a pole — a crystal lodged in its eye socket — he watches the gruesome fight below in peace. Arrows peg men in robes and though they raise barriers to protect themselves, the grenades hurled at their feet make short work of them. As he could recall Yen once telling him, magic, sorcery, it requires the proper conditions. Suppose those Tevinter folk down there don’t always account for explosions…

“Hmm,” he can help but hum to himself as several mercs flank the enemy mages, hacking and stabbing. There’s nothing uniform about this lot — they’ve each got their style and skill set and the fact that they manage to cooperate at all is impressive indeed. One elf down below, gripping tight to a variant of a long bow, she plucks the string and whips the weapon forward — a bolt of nearly imperceptible energy flows across the battlefield and an opposing soldier’s head goes pop, showering his comrades with his grey matter. Clearly a magician pretending to be something other but despite all this, none are so attention drawing at the horned giant bounding across the field, attacking wide with a brutal great axe, parting people of their limbs with every sweep. “YyyyyyyYyyyyeah!,” Geralt swears he can hear the horned mountain of a beast roaring over even the great waves crashing at the broken shore…

Blood stains on wet sand, it diffuses in the marbled grains of black and white…

Limbs fly like the hungry gulls circling the banks…

And with that, the battle won, these Charger’s check the dead, slitting throats to ensure they remain such…

“Hey you, quit your daydreamin’,” Idrilla calls out to Geralt in passing on her way down to the beach, careful in her footing on the rain slick path, “let’s go!” and the others, grumbling and complaining of her treacherous choice of steep way down, go slowly following. Though she’s certain of her barefooted step, the other three are much more trepidatious. Cassandra and Blackwall both test their every step twice while Solas relies on his staff for added balance. 

Geralt, he’s only paying attention to his knee — if it locks up here, he’s in for a tumble... fortunately nothing of the sort happens. As they walk among the corpses of Tevinter soldiers, Charger’s still stomping and slicing at the behest of their horned leader, a rattle whispers in Geralt’s ear, stuttering in its attempt to hide. With a glance, his discerning yellow eyes peering past wet strands of hair matted against his grim face, it’s all too easy to notice the subtle rise and fall of a downed soldier, lying beneath her dead brethren as if they were her security blanket. Letting the others go on ahead — sticking back — Geralt sighs “this isn’t your day” with a breath of pity. The soldier, doing her best to play pretend, her eyelids tremble, struggling to not betray her ruse, but he’s already seen through it. Sword free, he slowly plunges the steel downward through her truly dead comrades, piercing her chest and lungs — to that end, she gasps and her eyes flutter open, finding his but not for long. It isn’t anger he sees in them, no bubbling hatred of so many before her…

Only a quiet fear…

But as she breathes, she dies, and he pulls free his sword. Wiping it against the leg of a dead man, several of the mercenaries eying him oddly doing their job, he sighs again and sword tip dragging against sand, he walks to rejoin his allies and he passes that same armored soldier from Haven, working at hacking open a cask. “…should know. Ever hear of the Ben-hassrath?” the grey brute questions of the Herald though his single eye lingers on the approaching Witcher. Anything Geralt missed, he’s sure someone’ll will fill him in later.

“Uh, noo. Cant say I’ve eva heard o’ that,” Idrilla answers and this creature, this Bull, he explains “It’s a Qunari Order. They handle information, security, all of it. Spies, basically, though…we’re spies. The Ben-hassrath are concerned about The Breach. Magic out of control like that could cause trouble everywhere.” This Bull looks back to the Herald and rumbles out “Been ordered to join the Inquisition, get close to the people in charge, and send reports on what’s happening.”

“Uhhh,” Idrilla starts to say but the Bull raises a hand, a gentle bid she hold all questions, and he goes on to offer “but I also receive reports from all over Orlais. You sign me up, I’ll share them with your people.”

Looking up at the towering brute through her mop of wet braids, a flicker of concerned confusion in her furrowed brow, she asks “whit kinda spy says they’re a spy? I don’t get it.”

“Look, whatever happened at the Conclave, it’s bad — someone’s gotta get that Breach closed — so whatever I am, I’m on your side.”

“O…kay?,” she stumbles out in agreement and with a smirk, he buries her slender hand in his enormous one, shaking on it and rumbling “Trust me, boss, this’ll be a good team up” before bellowing our “KREM. TELL THE MEN TO FINISH DRINKING ON THE ROAD. THE CHARGER’S JUST GOT HIRED!”

“Aw what about the casks, Chief??,” the armored man — evidently Krem — complains, already busy doling out tin mugs, “we opened them up! With axes!”

“SO FIND SOME WAY TO SEAL THEM!,” Bull demands and saunters toward Geralt, toward his men, and playfully jabs “you’re Tevinter right? Use blood magic.” But stopping short, shoulder to shoulder with our Witcher, he rumbles low “saw you doing my men’s work for them. Don’t. They need to get it right themselves” and without awaiting an answer — not that he’d get one — he continues on to see to his men…

Only, Geralt asks with a growl, “what are you?”

“What?,” the giant pauses.

“You’re a sylvan. Never knew one to lead so publicly,” the Witcher states as fact but lingering nearby, Solas asks in turn “pardon, but how is The Iron Bull a sylvan? He’s no spirit possessed tree.”

To that, Geralt squints, partly from the storm pelting his face, the other half from this information.

“Sylvans are wood,” Solas explains much more bluntly but Geralt states “Sylvans are intelligent creatures but they’re goats, not fucking trees.”

“I’m.. no goat,” Bull rumbles somewhat offended as Solas states “I believe you have oversold yourself — sylvans are most certainly _not_ goat creatures.”

“Fucking Conjunction of… ,” Geralt growls, visibly irate, “why can’t this place have proper names for things.”

“We do — they merely differ from your own,” Solas states the obvious, his hands behind his back, “that we share any similarities is remarkable in and of itself.”

“Melitele’s tits!,” the Witcher curses.

“Pardon?”

“Fuck this,” Geralt growls and abruptly leaves, storming off to the aforementioned casks — shoving his entire coin purse in Krem’s lap, he swipes a mug of the dark red drink and pulls deep of it, doing what he can to dull this fucking day. Snagging a second drink from the flabbergasted second in command, he stomps off toward a beached ship in the hopes of getting something palatable but stronger, something smuggled even, but in his departure, he does hear the big horned man question out “too many concussions? And what’s up with his eyes?

“He’s a person that doesn’t belong,” Solas vaguely informs.

“Huh…thought humans thought they belonged everywhere.”

“He claims he isn’t human.”

“Pretty sure there’s therapy for that.”

“Refers to himself as a Witcher,” Cassandra interjects, “He can fight and as long as he does so for us, I don’t care what he calls himself.”

“I’d like to see that,” Bull hums to himself, arms folded, but reminds “but not today. We’ll see you back in Haven.”

“Wait,” Blackwall questions of Cassandra and Solas while wiping rain from his face and spitting into the wind, “how is he not a human?”


	11. Chapter 11

“HERALD, CLOSE IT NOW!,” Solas yells while casting chain lightning across several lesser Terrors — the rift had already surged and funneled our extra demons for them to contend with but with Blackwall and Cassandra protecting Idrilla with swords and shields, bashing and slashing at anything that even makes an attempt, the Herald has time to raise her marked hand to the churning twisting slice of light. Tendrils creep from the rift and the whine of energy drones louder and louder as Geralt dances between stunned demons, beheading them with silver…

Fade born thunder cracks — the rift collapses in on itself, stealing some of the heavy rain with it. One down, an impossible number more to go.

“So that’s how you close a rift?,” Blackwall questions, his sword and shield still at the ready, not quite trusting that was the end, “Maker’s b..” but glancing the Seeker’s direction, he reconsiders that’s blaspheme and just asks “you’ve got to do that every damn time?

“Ughh, yes,” the only one with the key groans out and prods at the congealed remnants of Fade matter on the Storm-stricken stone with the butt of her staff. Face souring, she grimaces while grumbling “oh, gross. There’s bits o’ demon in this. Anyone…want th’ bits?” Though a collective “no” escapes the others, Geralt takes a crouch, peering into the goo and using a bit of driftwood, tests the substance first. Not corrosive, non reactive, he takes it at that and plucks the remnant pieces out only to stuff them in his satchel.

“Do I even want to ask?,” Cassandra groans in disgust but fortunately Geralt need not answer. Solas does for him, explaining “there’s a circle mage in Haven. Minave I believe…”

“Minaeve,” Geralt corrects.

“Yes, well, she studies what _can_ be brought back of enemies and creatures, observing for weaknesses and physiology, what can be turned to an advantage for the Inquisition.”

“I assumed _he_ wanted them for his collection,” the Seeker scoffs and rolls her eyes, “being he is a monster hunter. Is that not what they do, stuffing and mounting every kill for some grand display?

Sounds like she has experience with people of that sort.

“If I decide to stuff and mount anything, I’ll let you know,” Geralt growls before realizing his crucial mistake — Cassandra freezes in horror while Blackwall and Idrilla can’t help but let loose a short snicker — it’s too late and all he can growl is “not what I meant” as he goes stomping off ahead, not willing to be the butt of this particular joke. At least Solas is mature enough not to…

 _‘God damn it, he’s chuckling too,’_ Geralt realizes with his enhanced hearing even with the crunching of wet sand and stone beneath his boots and storm winds whistling… only on those winds is the scent of copper. Blood. Human and elf. He happens upon the site of a massacre just a little farther up the shoreline, Inquisition soldiers dead. Dumped from the cliffs above, their bodies broken and waterlogged as the angry sea laps at their feet, trying its best to pull them into its roiling depths.

“Shit,” he growls and stands in wait, shaking his head at this senseless waste of life, before giving a blunt shout “GET OVER HERE.” Though he hears Cassandra utter “you all can go first,” clearly still unsettled — that much is clear from her tone — when the four of them see what he’s found, their levity dies.

“Geralt,” Idrilla states, glaring at those men and women dead at her feet, their blood staining the cloth wrappings.

“Hm?”

“Tell me you can get their scent,” she asks as Blackwall gawks “the man isn’t a bloodhound” but she fires back a hard “shhhh! You got it, right?”

“Yes,” he growls and breathes deep, “we need to get up there,” pointing to the cliff above they were rolled off.

“Lead th’ way.”

**______**

  
The trail is older but the signs all too obvious, especially for one with his tracking skills. Broken branches, snapped twigs, a scrape in the dirt here, a browning blood stain there, it’s only an hour of following the clues before they five stand outside the rough hewn gate doors to a a base of sharpened logs and but a few thatched rooftops peaking out above it all — a couple guards man the wall

“She doesn’t have the crest of mercy,” one utters only for the other to say “I see that. I do have eyes.”

“She can’t be a challenger, can she?”

“Hey you, elf, are you a challenger?”

“Why not?,” she groans out, pissed there’s a wall between her and them, “yes.”

“Well first you need the..” one tries to say but with a tight hold on her staff, a hand on her hip, Idrilla begs the question “Do I look like I have th’ time ta go running all over all this damn wet on some stupid scavenger hunt?”

“Yyyyes?” the first guardsman hopes while peering down at them all from over the wall.

“Nooo,” she corrects.

“I’m sorry but it’s in our charter,” the older guard attempts, “without the crest, a challenge can not be officially declared, and so..”

“I thought I’d enjoy this place more than a swamp. How are you two making this worse than a swamp?” she asks of them with narrowing eyes, passive aggression itching to become confrontational, “the langer you keep me out is the langer I’m stuck drowning in my own clothes and thinkin’ of all the ways ta take the pound of flesh I’m owed — you arseholes did kill our men after all.”

A little more reverent, muttering between themselves on high, the guardsmen have a private talk, occasionally shooting wary glances to a spot inside their encampment. And during their bout of quiet bickering, Geralt overhears a “if they kill each other…” and “it’s a win win” before they yell down “open the gate!”

…the two disappear from view — the gate opens — and it’s them again. Too small an operation for anything else.

…and sauntering on in like she owns the place, Idrilla shouts into the storm “so which asshole killed my men?,” a challenge and she’s met with the loathsome barking of “Those pups deserved it. You think your order righteous? That stops here!” and the giant of man rushes her. With a quick jab of her oaken staff, she throws up a flashfire in his face but before he can even react, she’s stabbing deep at the hulking man’s inner thigh with a well hidden misericorde blade and yanking it out like uncorking a red wine — it flows so freely, splashing his boots and going pale, an angry panic taking him, he throws down his weapon to staunch the wound. “OI YOU CHEATING KNIFE EAR B...” but Idrilla doesn’t even let him have that. She shouts “here’s your _mercy”_ and shoves her thin blade in one ear and out the other — slack jawed, tongue lolling, the big man slumps dead to the puddling earth, his smoldering beard hissing at the wet while the Blades of Hessarian stare in shock.

Cassandra’s eyebrows sit high on her forehead.

Blackwall runs a gloved hand past his own ears with a grimace.

Solas, he merely quirks a single brow, more ponderous than anything.

Geralt just growls “can we now?,” tired of this infinite damp, this perpetual rain…

“Yeah. Done here,” she answers only a soldier steps to, claiming “Wait! Wa,..the Blades of Hessarian stand with you, Herald of Andraste.”

“Really? Just like tha’?”

“Well, you really should have issued your challenge with the amulet of…” the no name tries to argue a technicality but she throws her hand up, arguing back “I will fuck your rules to the ass end of Thedas” and flicking a finger skyward, “see tha’ big hole up there? Do I look like I’ve got time ta’ play games?” and blows rainwater from her lips.

“Games? N..no?”

“Nooo, I don’t,” she glares in answer, “I’m busy trying ta close tha’ big bastard. Whit does tha’ mean, you think?”

“You’re…not here to play g…games. Sorry” he utters apologetically and she shakes her head like a disappointed parent before walking off, bare feet tromping through the mud and sparse grass to leave.

Rifts to seal…

people to save…

mysteries to solve…

Not necessarily in that order…

“Bollocks. That was a fucking brutal,” Blackwall exhales hard at all that to which Solas comments “I don’t know, they _are_ the ones playing at being a religious gang” but the grizzled veteran questions out “what? I’m taking about the way she took that giant.”

“Oh, yes, that. Well, she seems to only possess a rudimentary understanding of the arcane — she obviously never completed her training as her Keeper’s First — it follows that she would have other means of defending herself, does it not?,” Solas argues on her behalf…

“Was a good kill,” Geralt growls in curt acknowledgement but most of his attention is turned to the empty stables. Not a horse in sight, it’s a tiring one indeed. But it’s the Seeker shouting “ARE YOU COMING?” in frustration that spurs the men along and away from the big corpse still slowly bleeding out. He’ll be food for the hounds by dawn…

**______**

She thinks they’ve gotten all the rifts of the area. Nothing else is tugging at her, whatever that means, but at least now they can leave this ever-wet hell of dangerous peaks and angrier shores and bears. As such, been walking South to North — no other way about it to get around this damn fishing hook of a mountain — have to walk miles up just to get out of this insufferable soup bowl.

Only, with every step…

Something’s wrong. There’s a…

 _‘Scratching? Claws? No, fingernails,’_ he tries to identify with experience but asks aloud “anyone else hearing that?”

“Hearing what?,” Blackwall asks in kind, eyeing the surrounding range with caution now on the off chance.

“I do not hear anything outside the rainwater in my ear,” Cassandra scoffs.

…but it’s only getting louder, as if all the mountain about them is echoing the infernal scraping.

 _‘Is it following us?,’_ he stresses at the thought, keeping a careful eye at the ground beneath his feet just in case. Too many types of monsters can burrow — he has to assume that’d be the case in this world as well. But still no one else seems to hear it, not a one of them is even aware. There’s the sound of rocks crumbling, rolling aside…

_Rock troll?_

Something cracking, somehow audible even in this storm of powerful rain and gales…

 _‘Earth elemental?,’_ he wonders but considering his wolf head medallion is vibrating the usual amount this close to the elf with the marked hand, it’s not a magical creature he need fear. But walking through a narrow pass, the wall gives way and a vile stench pours forth, forcing Geralt’s first thoughts to be ‘ _ROTTFIEND!’_ and he hastens to draw both sword.

It’s no creature he’s ever witnessed — variants on the rot, the entropic — but this is wholly new and terrifying. Some naked in the utmost, horrible festering gashes across their mottled grey and black flesh, others hack and rip at the hole with jagged sword and shield. Like a swarm of insects, they tear and pour from the rocky split, fingers clawing, screeching their ear splitting “ **rAAAGAGGHHHHH** ,” it’s only Cassandra’s fearful warning shout of “DARKSPAWN!” that identifies these new monsters.

Scrambling for the surface from their dank darkness, these horrid creatures with milky eyes come barreling forth into the open air — ghoulish things, gaunt beyond belief with black dripping from their every hole, they divide to conquer…

Cassandra, Blackwall, and Solas to the North.

Geralt and Irdrilla just South.

A mob of the most unholy, smack dab between the two halves.

Hacking and parrying, shields brought up, Cassandra and Blackwall stand strong against the wave crashing at them. Geralt, a hurricane of blades, he spins and slices, hacks and dices all that enter his personal space. But these frenzied men-turned-monsters couldn’t care less over loss of limb or tainted blood shed, their minds play to a different tune…

As Solas hurls bits of green — chunks of magic spun from the Veil — he topples some and pins others under overwhelming force unseen. Idrilla, she tosses fire and choking ash, cooking the creatures in range while suffocating others.

 _‘Guess even these have to breathe,’_ Geralt notes of her attack and goes on the offensive, dragging steel and silver against every exposed throat, growling at every spurt of black blood and neck opened wide, his brutality earning him special attention — a bigger beast, swollen around its cuirass and greaves, it hammer through the mob and even taking Geralt’s attack, cut deeply, it clobbers the Witcher with corded fists, knocking the white hair clear off his feet. And though the others shout, the ghouls descend upon him, gnashing and biting, grappling to pin.

Mouths latch on. Like lampreys they chomp down — his calf bleeds, fangs puncturing even his leathers…

Swords drop — a hastily drawn triangle — Aard smashes them back with concussive force and Geralt hauls himself to his feet. But rot breeds more — even now, the so called Taint is poisoning. Furious, he snags but one of the swords and hacks at the nearest monster, cleaving it in half with the sickening crunch of ribs and organs severed. “RUN,” a voice shouts as the world blurs. Delirium, dizzy, huffing and struggling against the rain and his every step. His innate skills and instinct the only thing pushing him forward, galloping away. A raven haired woman takes his hand and sprints, leading him. Something tries to grab ahold from behind, clawing…

He twists and jams his steel straight through the fucker’s skull.

Yen…

“RUN!”

Yen?

“NA DIN’AN SAHLIN,” demands the woman in what almost sounds like Elder Speech.

The earth quakes and the mountain roars, it’s rubble slithering about like a serpent.

Light dies and the darkness swallows all.

“Don’t die on me…”

Is…that..lilac?

“…geraaalt…!”

**______**

“Geralt?,” she whispers stern but sweet, lilac and gooseberries, a pleasant haze…

“Yen?”

“Are you there, Geralt?”

“I’m right here.”

“I need you to wake up…” she whispers and her familiar scent of perfume fades like everything else and turns to burnt copper in his nostrils. Dreams of pleasure turn to nausea, wave after throbbing wave. “Geralt?” the voice shifts to a brogue and his eyes flicker open, not entirely back from the throes of unconsciousness. A pervasive cold, a musty dampness in the air, skittering claw in the deep dark, but also the stench of blighted blood. His. With a pained groan, he returns to this world…

…and for some reason this cave reeks of magic — his madallion’s dancing off his chest in reaction.

“What…happened?,” he winces in the low light — theres a scratching of fingernails beyond the cave in. Same fevered clawing as before. They were followed.

“Overwhelmed so we ran,” Idrilla says while easing a vial of red liquid to his lips, “here, drink this.”

Elfroot potion. Know that from those two days bothering that apothecary. A little extra vigor warming it’s way down his esophagus, it’s only then he notices her bleeding hand and groans out “you okay?” but she nods out “had to get your blade away from you. You were swinging wild.” Seeing his brow bunch up like a laundry pile, his potential remorse, she quickly laughs off “oh, noo, wasn’t yer fault. I’m th’ fool fer grabbing th’ sharp end.”

“Aghhhhhhhrrr **rrrrrr** ,” screams the monstrosities without, furious to spread their ill. it’s muffled though. Maybe that’s where the magic is, in that cave in, keeping it bound up tight. Her doing, no doubt.

“Hm… am I going to turn into one those?”

“Shouldn’t. Like ta think we got it early enough,” she gingerly tests the skin with her fingertip and a runny black oozes from the teeth marks, “besides, looks like your body’s rejecting it. Lucky you. Luckier still how slow yer heart beats.”

“Mhmm, lucky.. me,” Geralt sighs with his usual gravel, “now we get to die in a hole.”

“We won’t starve at least, there’s deepstalkers down below. An’ someone was kind enough to build a ladder. Beside, pretty sure th’ others are still alive,” she guesses while tightening the bandaging on her gash, her other still wavering with fade light, keeping the small cave somewhat lit with its iridescent glow, “hope they are, anyway.”

“Damn,” Geralt realizes while dropping his head back against cold stone, “dropped my…my other…sword” but his eyes swim and the world goes black again…

**______**

With a huff he comes to, rolling onto his side and sucking in a few sharp breathes to get air to his brain a little quicker, a cheap wake up, but seeing he’s awake and not turned, Idrilla kicks up the friendly banter, asking “Meant to ask earlier” while tending to a meager fire blossoming from her oaken staff head, “Who’s Yennifer?” Clearly a spell of some sort. No answer from Geralt, he just glowers at those magic born flames.

“Called out ta her a whole bunch of times.”

“No.”

“Yeah, ya did,” she smirks while turning over a hunk of roasting leg meat at the fire’s edge.

“Hm.”

“Oh, Don’t be salty. Yer better than tha’.”

“Really not,” he grumbles and pulls himself into the upright — the scratching outside it gone at least. Either those monsters ran off or they’re lying in wait…

“Just I’ve only ever heard you talk about tha’ Triss woman. Now this Yennifer. Does Triss know you’re callin’ out another woman’s name?”

“I’m not with…hrmmm,” he growls at his injury, “hrmm, not with Triss.”

“Singing like a bird,” she jokes, “look who can’t stop tellin’ their innermost secrets.”

“Shut it, elf.”

“Hehe, thas right, keep talkin’ shem — oh wait, thas right, you’re not one of them. “

He bares his teeth but says nothing.

“Grunt, growl, snicker if ya will, whatever keeps me knowin’ yer still alive” but she pauses to reconsider, “and not one of them,” with a tip of her head toward the rubble keeping out the Darkspawn. Deepstalker skin pops and crackles, sounds about done — must be since she’s sinking her teeth into it already, not even bothering to let it cool, humming with satisfaction…

And then she’s kind enough to offer one to him. Tainted blood does nothing good for the appetite though and he’s still on the verge of vomiting what little is in his stomach. A simple shake for no is answer enough and with a shrug, she wraps it in a bit of cloth, saving it for later. As for their little back and forth, even knowing as little of him as she does, she knows well enough he’s done for now.

Just give him some quiet.

Some space.

Let him finish healing…

**______**

  
Drawing a broken inverted triangle through the air from his seat on a rock, Geralt utters “Quen” and a golden aura snaps to his form but he quickly releases, not back to full strength. 

No shortage of drinking water, all the rain that drips and plops in through the cracks. Food isn’t scare either if you’re fine eating upright lizards with heads like worms, rows of serrated teeth just inside. Least the meat’s not toxic. Last thing anyone needs in this confined space is intestinal distress.

Much better off than yesterday, no longer is the Taint pussing from his bite marks.

”..you already saw Aard,” he reminds, “used it outside.”

”Oh c’mon! Show it, please!”

”Not in here,” he warns, “don’t need to brings the ceiling down on top of us” but drawing an upright triangle, he flicks at it while growling “igni” and the whole cavern dances with firelight for but a moment. 

“How many o’ those can you actually do?”

”Five,” he growls, drawing an hourglass and clenching down, “Yrden.” A purple glimmer, the cave in sounds like its petrifying, filling in the gaps. Confused though, the effects much less evident, she asks “sorry, I didn’t...whit just happened?”

”Locked the wall in place,” he answers but reconsidering from her lack of appreciation, “should’ve cast it on you.”

”...and you’re sure you’re not a mage?”

”Last time, not a mage. Not a witch. Not a sorcerer. Not a magician,” he growls and with a smirk, she says “Just a witcher.”

”Yes,” he replies and a hush falls. Just in them. There’s still that unsettling scratching of Deepstalkers further down below, but eerily nothing outside. After several minutes of this, Idrilla says “Thanks fer keepin’ yer word.”

His cat eyes find hers but clearly he has no idea what she’s talking about.

”Fer showin’ me those sign things,” she elaborates and putting on her best impression of him, she growls “Later.”

Still he says nothing, he just lets out a sigh. 

“Well, that’s whit you said. Later. And now’s later. So thanks.”

”We can try escaping,” he abruptly changes the topic and slides himself up the carved cave wall, testing his leg, “If they’re still out there, we could bottleneck them, take them out one by one.”

”True. We can try. But are you sure yer good ta fight?” she asks while rising, leaning against her staff.

“Wait, quiet...,” he growls and presses his ear to the entry way.   
  
_Metal striking metal._

_Screeches in the distance._

_The pluck of bow strings..._

An explosion booms, it’s tremors felt at a distance. Then...nothing. The minutes stretch on and on until a muffled “...the mark’s signal is faint but I believe they're withi...” mutters from without. A knocking of wood on stone, the same voice — definitely that Solas — he asks “Herald? Witcher?” and Idrilla shouts “YES!”

”Are you able to remove your spell? If not, I should be able to though it will take some time...”

”HERALD,” Cassandra shouts through the cave in, “YOU ARE ALRIGHT?”

”YES,” she explodes, and as Geralt steps back, his Yrden likely having already worn off, the wild elf slashes her staff this way and that, her marked hand a tight fist as chunks and boulders seamlessly fit back into the entryway, back from where they were torn from.

“Holy shit, he’s actually alive,” Blackwall coughs out in surprise and swoops in to help Geralt walk, shouldering his weight, “How are you not a ghoul?” Not taking any of the credit, the Witcher just nods back at Idrilla as she takes a deep inhale of fresh air and wipes at a nosebleed with her wrist. Over exertion, not enough mana. In the distance, the Blades of Hessarian are stabbing and burning Darkspawn corpses...

_...hm. So they were useful after all..._

”It’s fortunate you were able to find sanctuary in these ruins,” Solas says, peering through the crumbled threshold, “I wonder what it was...”

”Some sort o’ magical lock further in. Honestly? I don’t care. Let some other idiot who wants ta bother with keys figure this out.”

”Farther.”

”Shut it, you,” Idrilla warns with her face to the sky, rain water washing her clean, but Solas lectures “Correct word use is a key unto itself.”

”Solas. I’ve bin trapped in a cave fer two days. Leave it be.”

But while the two elves almost purposefully irritate one another, Cassandra steps in behind the Witcher, sheathing his lost silver blade in the scabbard strapped to his back, stating “Do not say I have never done anything nice for you.”

Absent minded, still relishing the fresh air though wincing with every step, he comments “appreciate you grabbing my long sword. As Blackwall’s coughs in suppression of a deep laugh, shaking against Geralt, Cassandra just stops following, shouting “NO, I CANNOT DEAL WITH YOU” in abject disgust.

”Heheheheh, grabbed his,” the warden full on laughs now, a rough throated thing, “...you grabbed his long sword! Maker!”

”STOP IT,” she demands, “NOW.”

”Careful everyone, Cassandra’s gonna grab your long sword,” Blackwall laughs, his face going red. But actually drawing her sword, she threatens “I will end you both.”

”Sorry, sorry. Couldn’t help myself,” the warden waves off with his free hand and Geralt just growls “I open my mouth, I say too much.”


	12. Chapter 12

“I don’t get it,” Blackwall complains, blasphemes, dragging his feet and flexing his shield arm, “isn’t Haven West of here? Why in the blessed Andraste’s ass are we going to Redcliffe? We were here last week.” The man is irritable, exhausted and in need of rest.

Frankly, everyone is.

“Because, we couldn’t then,” Idrilla answers pointedly, trying — and failing — to keep her cool, “The Spymaster said ta meet with Fiona on our return trip. By now, our agents should have finished with their investigation. Don’t want any surprises er traps.”

“A reasonable approach, one that would’ve been nice to learn about earlier perhaps?,” Solas briskly points out, using his staff as a walking stick.

Her and Geralt’s having to take refuge in that ruin for a couple days put them all behind schedule and with the world at stake, every hour counts. As it is, they travelled through the night, ensuring great haste.

“So it slipped my mind,” Idrilla makes an excuse but Cassandra states “Well I knew. Leliana and I discussed the plan at great length.”

“Would you all shut it,” Geralt growls of their grating dialogue, “I just want some blessed silence.” He’s a migraine brewing, pinching behind his eyes and that’s likely equal parts due to them and the ghouls bites. Beyond that, he’s not the least bit interested in walking into an entire town of rebelling mages. He’s dealt with enough of that in his life.

...Then again, if it’s a coin toss between choosing them or Templars, the former is less likely to be a bunch of dicks.

Might just be wishful thinking.

‘ _Stregobor. Vilgefortz. Philippa Eilhart. Francesca Findabair. Sheala de Tancarville,’_ are just some of the names of the bigger chaos using assholes he’s had the displeasure of dealing with that pass in thought, though, even ‘ _Yen’_ flashes through his mind. Not all are evil — Yennifer is proof of that — but impulse and reckless abandon can give way to wanton destruction and ruin real swiftly.

’ _If Destiny were a kinder bitch, Triss should be here,_ ’ he regards, hoping just once his luck plays out to his advantage and saves him on time...

The gates of Redcliffe stand stark against the greenery, their objective all the closer — the faintest remnants of a rift still scar the air just outside, only visible if the sunlight hits it just so, a lingering remark on the potential of dangerous magic. In passing under the portcullis, their party entering the township, an Inquisition scout slips from the brush, troubled as they lean in to whisper “something is wrong. No one seems to know you were coming.”

“Like they forgot?,” Idrilla questions of the human scout, hopeful it’s just that. But they shake their head, answering “As if erased from memory.”

“What can that mean?,” Cassandra asks, suddenly much more on edge, her sword hand clutching the grip, ready to draw at a moments notice.

“Whatever it means,” Solas reasons, “we shouldn’t delay any further in speaking with Fiona.”

She nods in silent agreement, leading them down the winding dirt road, past the crowds and throngs of mages. Odd though, they each seem to be murmuring of sleepless nights and bizarre dreams, the bags under their eyes certainly evidence of that. Topic of the town. Walking by shops and storage, around a massive griffon statue and beyond, peering about for their agreed upon meeting spot, Idrilla spies a two story tavern on a hill…

Though the signage above the door reads “Gull and Lantern,” a much smaller placard to the right of the door reads “Formerly Grey Warden’s Rest, named so in honor of Aria Amell, the Hero of Ferelden & Savior of Redcliffe.”

“Honored with a sign but changed th’ name anyway? Whit’s th’ point of tha’?,” Idrilla comments with distaste as they enter the packed establishment though Blackwall feels the need to point out “Wardens don’t do what we do for accolades and fame. We stand for vigilance, victory, and sacrifice.” 

“Was that what it said out there?,” Geralt asks, still unable to read Thedosian common, “hm, forget I asked” but with his medallion vibrating, all the ambient triggering it, he goes quiet. Discerning. Calculating for threats.

Slipping through the drunks, every one of them done up in robes of all sorts, it isn’t long until they find a table with the upper echelon.

…Idrilla’s hand flares as if setting off alarms and one among the others, she turns in surprise, standing to greet “you…you are the Herald?.” Confused, tired like the rest, this Elven woman seems to be fighting off a migraine as she looks to Idrilla’s mark and utters “the mark…you _are_ her. But, why are you here?”

“You invited us,” the Elven Herald states as fact, her tone annoyed.

Fiona, rubbing at her temples, she struggles to process, taking a moment more to puzzle out “that..cannot be. I do not…remember doing such a thing.”

“What do you mean?,” Cassandra questions with irritated disbelief, “You approached _us_ in Val Royeux.”

“You are certain?,” this Fiona questions in kind and Idrilla states a short, flat “yes” leaving no wiggle room for arguing.

“I…don’t recall doing so but it…it _feels_ correct? Why is that?”

Rolling her eyes, taking a steadying breath to get through this without snapping, Idrilla now prods “well how about we skip ta the part where you join the Inquisition an’ help us close the Breach? Sound good?” and clapping once, assuming it a done deal, “now let’s go. C’mon. Breach isn’t getting’ any smaller and my hand isn’t hurting any less.”

The crux — Fiona laments “Whoever or…whatever brought you here, I am sorry but the circumstances have changed. The free mages have already…pledged themselves in service to the Tevinter Empirium… as one indentured to a magister, I no longer have the authority to negotiate” leaving Idrilla, Cassandra, and Solas all giving her the side eye. Blackwall has no horse in this race and Geralt, he feels eyes lingering on him. And one wizened mage in particular, his clothes vastly stranger than the others, he comes strolling in with a smile — the crowd parts for him and the young man shadowing him — as he says “Because I have the authority,” expanding where Fiona left off, “I apologize for not greeting you earlier…”

“Agents of the Inquisition,” Fiona begrudging announces, “allow me to introduce Magister Gereon Alexius.”

“You see, the Southern mages are under my command,” he says but before it feels like he’s said everything he meant to, Geralt growls “why?” and the magister stumbles at his apparent lack of logic.

“Because they pledged themselves to…”

“All of them?”

“Y-yes!,” Alexius whines, “now if we might..” but again Geralt interrupts, asking “All of them pledged individually?” while Cassandra hisses “what are you getting at?”

“No, they put the Grand Enchanter forth as their representative, so therefore, her agreeing is tantamount to…”

“They all agreed to her being in charge?,” Geralt growls, hiding his enjoyment under his typical stony expression of indifference.

“THE MAJORITY, I’M SURE,” he talks loudly, almost snapping at the Witcher whom he’s only now taking stock of — his gear, his features, his multitudes of weaponry, his…eyes — upon which, Alexius clears his throat, recomposing himself as he turns back to the Herald and utters “and you are the survivor, the one from the Fade,” though leering unpleasantly past his oddly pointed red cowl to her glowing hand.

“Yes?,” Idrilla answers in question, looking at her group for any sort of nonverbal assistance. Cassandra at least has the wherewithal to put forth “If we could skip the pleasantries… there is a Breach to close and we are in need of your mages.”

“Ahh, straight to business — I approve,” this strange older mage beams with a mean glint in his eye and moving to take a seat, to literally open the table to negations, “now, there must be concessions in consideration for…” but the young man shadowing him coughs and collapses. Immediately a mother hen, Alexius panics and shouts “Felix!” as Fiona rushes in to administer aid — the two shouldering the lad — a thin strand of black spittle hanging from his lip — they escort him away as Alexius shouts back “I am sorry, we will have to discuss this another time!” and they vanish up the stairs, the many mages present filling in behind them…

“Boy has tainted blood,” Geralt rumbles, knowing well its scent after dealing with it himself.

“Well, you should know,” Idrilla mentions and pockets a parchment scrap, “ tha’ boy just slipped me a note. Outside. Let’s go.” Once they’ve left, slipping around the corner as she leads them toward a church at the back of town, Solas questions “is it fair to assume the note is a tip off, a clue to this Alexius’ real designs?”

“Or are we walking into a trap?,” Blackwall frowns, reasonably concerned.

A mad light in her eyes — either intrigue or sleep deprivation — Idrilla grins and knocks open the Chantry door, slipping inside when there’s a flash of green…

“Is it fair to assume the note is a tip off,” Solas asks, “A clue to this Alexius’ real designs?” as they follow along behind Idrilla toward a small Chantry at the back of town.

“Or are we walking into a trap?” Blackwall worries. Half crazed looking herself, Idrilla shrugs and goes to push the door open…

A flash of green…

Walking behind the Herald, on their way to the Chantry doors, Solas ponders “Is it fair to assume the note is a tip off? A clue to this Alexius’ real designs?” Easing up the stone steps, Blackwall’s points out “We could walking into a trap…”

_Wait..._

A flash of green…

“Is it fair to assume the note is a tip off?,” Solas ponders, “Some clue to this…” but Geralt stomps in front and blocks them, growling “Shut up. Stop moving. Something’s wrong” with his medallion almost buzzing. Smelling the air, breathing sharply, he slaps his face and glares at the church, announcing “This...already happened.”

“What are you on about?,” Blackwall questions, looking at the Witcher like he’s mad. Solas, holding a hand out, he whispers “No. He is correct that something _is_ wrong. It almost feels as if this moment is trapped?”

“What do you mean, Solas?,” Cassandra demands under her breath, not eager to draw more attention to themselves.

“I…I’m not sure.”

“He’s right,” the Herald suddenly agrees, slowly testing the air with her mark like a dowsing rod, “th’ pull keeps shiftin’ and th’ mark feels…unsettled?”

“Which means??”

“There was tha’ rift outside when we first came through these parts…” Idrilla frowns out and Solas adds “Yes, it seemed to be affecting the flow of time around it, distorting the natural progression.”

The Herald, she pauses, pondering, staring with furrowed brow to the church until she recognizes to ask “Shit. How many times has this happened? Geralt?”

“Not sure.”

“Does anyone remember what I did before…this?”

“You touched the door?,” Geralt growls, already digging through his satchel, “So you can’t touch. Got it” and punching out the thin stained glass window, shattering and surely drawing attention, the Witcher tosses a grenade inside to the horror of Cassandra. With a blast muffled only by the chantry’s stone and mortar walls, the air twinges, something’s changed and kicking open the door, a rift hovers in the ceiling. Twisting in on itself as bits of shiny metal glint in the air like snow, reflecting the glow of the Fade, tendrils it means to spit keep getting disrupted. In the corner of the pulpit, a single mage is hacking and coughing, yelling “Close it! Now! Hurry! Agh! Introductions later!”

Dire times, Idrilla slides under the squinched up Fade mouth and punches her marked hand at it — arcing light connects the two and with an angry twist of her wrist, the rift collapses in on itself.

As silver wafts about inside, Cassandra — her gloved hand out to catch some in disbelief — she questions “What _did_ you do??” Half angry, partially relieved, Cass glares at the Witcher as he answers “Moon Dust bomb” as if that explains everything.

“HOW? WHEN DID YOU HAVE TIME TO MAKE A BOMB?!”

Regardless, the stranger in the room laughs out “And what a bomb it was! I dare say it’ll be days before I wash all the glittering silver off, toxic though it may be. At least I can pull off this look. But thank you so very much! I’ve been trapped in that loop for..well, I suppose logically it’s still the same day so no time at all but that’s the very issue at hand isn’t it? Time?” Taking a breath, trying not to start another coughing fit, the well groomed mage asks of Irdrilla “Oh and speaking of hands, how does that work, exactly? Do you even know? You just…wiggle your fingers and BOOM! Rift closes.” Seeing her irritated expression though, he coughs out “Ah, Ahem, getting ahead of myself again, I see” and giving her a slight bow, he tweaks his mustache back in place and introduces himself as “Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. How do you do?”

“Short o’ it? I’m tired.”

“Well Tired,” Dorian quips.

She is too irritable for dad jokes and puns. She just frowns at the mage.

”Sorry. Not feeling humorous? Understood. Truth be told, I heard your name was Indra.”

”Idrilla,” the elf states rather flatly, unblinking in her dead fixed stare of indifference.

”Ah, yes, that was it,” he says before speaking more earnestly and to the point, “Anyway, I’ll have you know Magister Alexius was once my mentor, so my assistance _could_ be valuable, as I’m sure you can imagine. I also sent the note in your slender little fingers — had to warn you after all. By now, you must know there’s danger. That much should be obvious…so let’s start with Alexius claiming the allegiance of the mage rebels out from under you.” Dusting off a shoulder and glancing to the silver powder coating his palms, he goes on to say “As if by magic, yes? Which is exactly right. To reach Redcliffe before the Inquisition, Alexius distorted time itself.”

Shoulders sagging, arms dangling, Idrilla shakes her head as she groans out “This…this is beyond my…Solas you’re up” and the egg headed elf nods in consideration, commenting “A most dangerous development, if true.”

“It is. The rift she closed here? You all saw how it twisted time around itself. Soon, there will be more like and they’ll appear further and further away from Redcliffe. The magic Alexius is using is wildly unstable,” and taking on a more dramatic tone, Dorian states “and _it’s unraveling the wooorld_.”

“Prove it,” the Herald dares, folding her arms, and he fires back “I know what I’m talking about. I helped develop this magic! When I was his apprentice, it was pure theory. Alexius could never get it to work. What I don’t understand is why he’s doing it, ripping time to shreds just to gain a few hundred lackeys?”

That’s when Geralt growls “The son” just as Felix slips inside the Chantry, agreeing “Yes, that’s correct. He certainly didn’t do it for the mages...”

“Took you long enough.”

“Had to fake being sick — shouldn’t have played that card, I thought he’d be fussing over me all day.”

“Your blood,” Geralt growls and Felix nods, saying “Yes. In chasing a cure for me, my father joined a cult. Tevinter supremacists. They call themselves “Venatori.” But know this Herald, everything my father has done for me, he’s done as much for the Venatori to get to you.”

“Cause o’ th’ hand,” she states the obvious, growing ever bored while she leans against a pillar.

“Yes, and what he’s doing here is madness. We don’t need a hole in time, there’s already a hole in the sky,” Dorian replies and Felix comments “I don’t know why they’re so obsessed with you. I think it goes beyond your mark, I think it’s because you survived.” Picking up where the other left off, Dorian posits “You _can_ close the rifts. There must be a connection.. they see you as a threat?”

“And I’ve been gone long enough,” Felix notes, “any longer…”

“Go on, be careful. Try not to get yourself killed” the mustachioed mage utters to his friend — but with his leaving, Dorian tells Idrilla “You know you’re the target. Expecting the trap is the first step in turning it to your advantage. I shouldn’t stay in Redcliffe — Alexius doesn’t know I’m here but I want to keep it that way for now. There’s a cabin outside the town, from there I’ll monitor the situation. When you do come back to deal with him, I’ll be waiting. Stay in touch, yes?” and with that, he too slips out the back of the chantry, hidden in shadow…

“So… thoughts?,” the Herald asks the group but the moment Cassandra points out “We need to double time it back to Haven — the others must be made aware of” only Idrilla groans “rhetorical question. Let’s just go.”

Blackwall grumbles “No sleep for the wicked” and Solas merely nods out “Surely not. Lead the way.” Following behind, Geralt says nothing, lurking entirely in his head and mulling over what’s been seen here this day.

The twisting of time...

Pondering the advantages of such a magic...

**______**

Just outside the war room, propped against the wall with muscled arms folded, Geralt stays in wait. Beyond bathing and getting drunk, he’s done everything else of note since getting back to Haven.

Demonic bits — relinquished to Minaeve. A new whet stone and some oils — purchased from the blacksmith using actual coin of this world. Herbs and poisons — restocked when that gruff apothecary was out for lunch.

So now, ignoring the unsettled leering of Chantry sisters as they scurry throughout the hall, administering their holy platitudes to anyone in range, he stands guard at the door…

But a two foot thick stone wall and a heavy wooden door at his backside can’t mute the conversation within, not with his enhancements…

“… don’t have the manpower to take on Redcliffe castle. We should give up this nonsense and go get the Templars,” Cullen irritably points out but Cassandra’s quick to voice “Redcliffe is in the hands of a magister — this cant be allowed to stand.”

“The letter from Alexius asked for the Herald of Andraste by name, it’s an obvious trap,” he’s certain that was Josephine saying.

“How kind o’ him…”

_Idrilla. No mistake._

The spymaster is more quiet than the others but Geralt manages to overhear “…complimentary that some are certain he wants to kill…” and Josephine sneers “Not. This. Again.”

Another church lady, she audibly balks at Geralt when she notices him, immediately turning tail and hurrying off the way she came…

“…of the most defensible fortresses in Ferelden. It’s repelled thousands of assaults — if you go in there, you’ll die and we’ll lose the only means we have of closing these rifts. I won’t allow it,” Cullen barks like the angry hound he is but the spymaster is quick to say “..and if we don’t even try to beat Alexius, we lose the mages and leave a hostile foreign power on our doorstep,” louder now.

The conversation is growing heated,

Josephine, her sweet voice still dripping with irritation, she speaks out “Even if we could assault the keep, it would be for naught. An Orlesian inquisition’s army marching into the heart of Ferelden will provoke a war. Our hands are tied.”

Good point.

“..The magister…” Cass tries to argue but the Commander growls “Has outplayed us,” clearly not wanting such to be the case.

‘ _Don’t need an army_ ,’ Geralt thinks to himself, considering his many times breaking and entering. But on the same page, Idrilla chuckles derisively “You shems an’ your armies. Why do with a hundred whit you can do with ten?”

“Smart,” Geralt mutters approvingly to himself.

Hard to tell, but it sounds like that Leliana is smiling, the way she says “...During the 5th Blight, we used a secret passageway to infiltrate the castle. I think you’ve the right idea. It’s too narrow for troops but we could certainly send a few agents.”

“…too risky, they’ll be dead before they can even…” Cullen warns but sounds like Idrilla when the next says “an’ why I’ll be distractin’ the madman. Accept his invitation, stroll on in lookin’ pretty, and he’ll think he’s got me.”

Cullen again, he comments “Risky... but it _could_ work” and Josephine stresses “Then are we really doing this?”

“Yes. Give me a day an’ I’ll be ready,” Idrilla seems to end the matter. Papers rustling within. Folding? Some grumbling?

Then the lock turns — door opening, Idrilla slips out and seeing him still there, she sighs out “Thanks fer waiting, I’m gonna buy you drinks an’ you’re gonna tell me how to get on tha’ magister’s nerves. You were doing a great job o’ tha’ back in Redcliffe.” But as he shrugs in agreement, always willing to drink — that was his day plan anyway — Leliana and Cassandra are the next to exit and they look less than pleased. The former, she accuses “You manufactured an explosive device” and Cassandra is quick to say “By whose authority did you make the bomb?”

“Mine,” he casually growls, not concerned in the least by their inquisition within their inquisition.

“You think you are clever? With one word, your freedoms can be rescinded”

“You will go back in the dungeon.”

“If it means a decent sleep, then throw me in,” he challenges but Idrilla rallies to his defense, arguing “Are you two fucking daft? His grenade interrupted a damn time rift. We were in a loop!”

“That is not the point,” Leliana fires back, “he engaged in practices that he is currently being investigated for, the very same thing that first had our attention after the..”

“IT’S EXACTLY TH’ DAMN POINT,” Idrilla spits back with her natural brogue daring to come out in full and the hall drops into an uneasy silence, bystanders witnessing such a volatile reaction from their Herald against a head of the Inquisition. Trying to maintain some control over the dialogue, Leliana politely smiles and whispers “it is very much the point. The investigation is ongoing and we must look in all directions to…”

“Shut it,” Idrilla bites back, “How many times’ll you be wrong before you realize ya need ta look elsewhere? Me? Him? Blackwall?” and Leliana shuts down, her nostrils close to flaring, maintaining calming breaths so as not to explode herself. “An’ Cassandra,” Idrilla glares, “I thought you knew better” and the Seeker’s dark brows creep up her forehead, being told off as she was. Grabbing Geralt’s arm, hauling him away, Idrilla proclaims angrily and loudly enough “If I di’nt need a drink before, NOW I FUCKIN’ DO!” to shun the Spymaster and Seeker.

The hall remains uneasy, dead quiet, all the bystanders avoiding eye contact but cannot help to look away…

**______**

Word spreads quickly, every person a damn gossip. The shouting match in the church isn’t a secret and patrons have been giving Idrilla her space. Quick to serve, quick to distance. Actually working to Geralt’s advantage, a quiet bar can be a temple all it’s own. Meditative. Peaceful. No shit rhyme schemes or poorly sung couplets, the lady bard just plucks her strings, not filling the place with her voice. Gotta figure it’s all related…

As glasses of dark liquor quickly find their hands at their table — having borrowed Varric’s usual nook — with his first sip, Geralt sighs “So you want to piss off a highborn.”

“Gonna need it. You’re good at it. What’s th’ secret,” Idrilla praises and asks, still carrying that anger from earlier, but she takes a deep pull of her drink, shivering some at it’s smoky burn, “Andruil’s tits, whit is this? Don’t have this back home.” That last part, she utters just a bit more quietly, reserved. It’s longing.

...Horns sound out, someone’s returned…

‘ _Homesick_ ,’ Geralt ponders while answering “Can’t read the labels. Just asked for potent.”

“An’ potent it is,” she comments before taking a more measured sip, “So, tell me…”

“It’s not really a secret — just call out the obvious. Nobles hate that shit.”

“Tha’s it?,” she questions, not sold on the matter, “Shem lords are that weak?”

“Not just humans. It’s all nobles and lords — Doesn’t matter their race — get on too high a pedestal, you forget how the real world works, too hung up on your own propaganda.”

“No shit?,” she comments only that choppy haired elf from before, she leaps into the third chair and laughs “Cat eyes here, heez not wrong. Stuffed shirts hate it when u feed them a taste” and eyeing Idrilla, sizing her up, she comments “Careful not to get too big headed urself, right Harold?”

“Thanks, _Jenny_ ,” the Herald shrugs back.

“Pffb, it’s Sera,” miss choppy bangs snorts.

“An’ it’s Idrilla,” the dark haired elf comments in kind, more a challenge than anything, but Sera groans “ughhh, too elfy. Sorry, Harold” and hops back from her chair, slipping away to pester that Flissa lady at the bar. Rolling her eyes, knocking back the rest of her drink and throwing a finger up to catch the barmaid’s attention, Idrilla grumbles toward the other elf, “Dirthara-ma, not a herald. Not a Harold. I miss my forest, I miss my clan, I miss my ol’ life.”

To that, the Witcher raises a glass and nods appreciatively, taking a sip to toast.

“Shit, sorry, I almost…”

“Don’’t,” he shrugs off. His situation is what it is. Either he finds Triss and gets home or he doesn’t. No use complaining, not with a strong drink in hand. Sober? Sure, complain then, just not now.

But upon draining his drink, he rises and as she eyeballs him, quirking a brow and asking “where you goin’?” he answers “when we were coming in, I saw some horses.”

“Pff, fine, leave me ta fend for myself,” she huffs jokingly…

As he goes to leave, opening the door, his hand still on the grip, Varric comes shoving past his hips, clearly on a mission all his own — not even acknowledging the Witcher, he makes a beeline for the bar and before they can even take his order, he spots Idrilla and shouts with very little of his usual levity “oh! Herald. The Fallowmire? You owe me big!” but Geralt’s already closing the door, had enough arguments for one day. Hell, had too much in the way of words today. Less talk, more quiet. Maybe the those horses will provide better company…

…and on his way to the main gates, making way past the merchants and people toiling about their day jobs, he overhears at a distance, a man in ill fitting clothing, fletching arrows, he whispers to the lady beside him “How’s he still alive?” She hisses back “ heard he became a Darkspawn and somehow killed the blight in ‘im. Strength of will, that one.”

“How’s that even work?”

“The Maker has his eye on that one,” she comments while bundling a batch.

_Fucking rumor mill. Who the hell starts this shit._

**______**

The Chestnut mare knickers approvingly, swishing its tail this way and that…

“Yeah.”

…It snacks up the dried grass he offers, its lips dragging at his gloved hand in search of more treats — he takes he’s fingers behind the ears and still chewing, it knocks it’s head into his chest, clearly wanting for more head scratches. “Okay,” Geralt hums with a smirk but a shadow looms over him and the horse both, something big, something horned.

‘ _moves real quiet for his size — best remember that_ ,’ Geralt notes while commenting “Iron Goat” without looking back..

“The Iron Bull,” the Qunari corrects.

“Mhm.”

“Let’s wall and talk,” he offers though it sounds more a requirement — sighing, he rubs the chestnut’s nose and unenthusiastically follows along beside the hulking grey man. Just out of earshot for most, standing at the frozen lake’s shoreline, Bull presses “haven’t seen your type before. Been listening in around the camp…”

“Your question.”

“Fine — Was trying to be friendly — what are you?,” the big guy stares down his nose at Geralt, studying him with his one eye. Near enough, his lieutenant Krem is pretending not to be paying attention. Pretending. ‘Not a bad system,’ Geralt notes, seeing through it despite it not being so obvious, but finally he answers vaguely with “Professional.” Not content with that, the shirtless mountain of a man presses “try again.”

“No.”

“Because I’m Qunari?”

“You’re a spy. You probably have a lot in common with Leliana,” he growls while walking back towards the stables, brushing aside the big man’s questions, “Go chat her up, sure she’s got plenty to say about me.” Only, the Iron Bull plants his meaty hand on the witcher’s shoulder, holding him back and demanding “Wait” with a rumble.

“You’re missing an eye,” Geralt warns, “care to keep that hand?”

“Tough guy. Good threat — but I’ve better access to your weapons from this position than you do,” he warns in kind — Krem rises near the stables, full attention on his boss, ready to leap to action if need be. Others of his group, they pause their chatter by their tents and focus on the Witcher as well. Leaning in to whisper, to threaten, Bull says “You see what you’re dealing with. Are you as smart as you are tough? Answer my questions. Hate to cause a scene here…”

“Hm” is all he growls before hastily drawing a triangle and launching himself back against the Qunari, cracking heads together and knocking the big guy back, staggered. Back of his skull throbbing from hitting horn ridge, he quickly tosses his swords — no weapons needed — and readies up, eager to brawl. Spitting blood from a cut lip, Bull hurriedly throws a hand up to stop his men from charging to his aid, and with a deep rumble of a laugh, he comments “this’ll do” and brings his heavy fists up.

Heads turn, duties are interrupted by rubberneckers. More than a few soldiers in training give pause…

Geralt’s quick, rushes in for the attack but somehow Bull is able to dart right, blocking while also taking a swing at the Witcher. Nothing connects. But the two have at it.

Strike, jab, block, uppercut, block, block, swing…

Geralt throws one at his opponents throat but Bull manages to get the opening, punching hard at his jaw — hits like a brick. Geralt spits blood — bit the inside of his mouth — and tonguing at the graze, smirks out “impressive.” Both charge in, only Geralt rolls just at the Qunari jabs, leaping up and throwing an elbow into Bull’s side. One grunts and the other twists, fists find both their pretty faces. Close enough to to grapple, Bull bear hugs the man and starts head butting, not expecting it when Geralt does the same. He keeps up his assault, smashing his face into Bull’s, but he’s losing air — the crush on him to great — and slowly losing consciousness, slowly slumping, losing speed, Bull lets go but Geralt does get one good punch in. A hard jab to the eyepatch, he gives that and tumbles back, losing consciousness in the dirt…

…the last thing he sees is Bull towering over him, fading into silhouette…

People cheering?

_Course they would…_

**______**

Comes to, propped against a stump — campfire crackling — people reveling. Night in full effect. As soon as he groans, that shirtless giant is shoving an entire flagon into his hands, booming out “DRINK UP! YOU DESERVE IT!” Groggy, disoriented, he takes a sip of the unknown and winces as it goes down. Like fucking paint thinner, it burns hard but the buzz is there at least. “Feel that?,” the Bull grins wide, “those are the nerves in your throat dying, ahhhhhhh. Enjoy it!”

“Fuck,” Geralt hums, taking another swig and blinking, making sure he can still see straight, before admitting “You won.”

“No, even better — we tied,” Bull smiles, impressed it seems despite the deep bruising on his face.

“Chief was still standing but had blacked out on his feet. Imagine our fucking surprise” Krem toasts and a rather mean looking elf with sharp eyes compliments “itz not often someone gets zee upper hand on him. You are… _okay_ … for a human.”

“Haven’t you Ahem…Ahh, heard, Skinner,” the big guy says while trying not to cough, having taken a deeper chug than he should’ve, “this guy isn’t a human!” and several of the Charger’s roar out “DRINK UP!” and clash their cups together. During this, Bull leans back, smiling to his men as he utters only to Geralt “when you threw down your weapons, that told me a lot about you. The way you fought, you’re not some reckless fool, nor are you a coward. You fight hard, even when trapped. And that offensive magic thing you did at the start?”

Geralt buries his face in his drink, expecting the worst, but is only surprised when The Iron Bull hums out “that was pretty damn cool. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not big on magic but what you did there...” and he kisses his thick fingers and flicks em to the clear night sky, “a thing of beauty.”

Not one for compliments or being complimented, Geralt drains his drink, scorching his throat all the way down and beaming wide at the sight, Bull yells “ANOTHER” and a dwarf slaps another glass to the Witcher...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay safe everybody. Here’s another update to pass the time for all those quarantined.


	13. Chapter 13

There comes a tapping, wood on wood, softly but intently. Not a tree branch. Too large for a bird. Groaning as his eyes peel open, he groggily takes in his surroundings while wiggling the toes of his single bare foot.

Wood cabin of some sort.

Thick layers of dust and cobwebs — not lived in anytime recently.

A torn and faded portrait, the subject so far gone it could be of a man as well as a woman.

Water damage in the ceiling, a musty scent lingers despite the broken window, plenty of airflow.

But the tapping becomes a knocking and the voice of Solas says “Hello? Witcher? I was told you came this way so it stands to reason that…” but Geralt tears open the door, wincing at the mid-morning sun, turning away from it. Solas continues on to say “…you are here. I understand you celebrated quite a bit with The Charger’s last night” with a knowing smirk, “however, I advise you be ready within the hour. The Herald intends to depart for Redcliffe shortly.”

Doesn’t remember getting here. Throat hurts. Taking a stabilizing inhale of cold mountain air, Geralt grunts “W-where?”

“Your current whereabouts?”

Just a low growl and a head shake is all he can muster, gripping the doorway. Mouth feels like sand.

“An evidently abandoned cabin beyond the walls of Haven. To whom it once belonged, I can only offer guesses. But as I said, you should hurry,” Solas informs, advises, and takes to walking back over his own footsteps in the snow. Curious. Masking.

_..Learning all manner of things this week…_

Licking his lips, he abandons the doorway, scouring the dingy cabin for his belongings. Armor thrown at a busted armoire, his missing boot under the bed, the wolf medallion dangles from a mounted elf head, it’s a bit of a hunt before he’s gotten everything together, on, and ready to go. Just following Solas’ footprints in the snow and the sounds of people through the trees, he inevitably stomps through the rows of soldier’s tents and growls the whole way through. So determined, he storms the stables and dropping to his knees, dunks his whole head into the frigid water of the drinking trough, horses whinnying and snorting with intrigue as he does.

3…

2…

1...

Pulling himself out, blowing water from his nose, he stands there glowering like a river monster, his long undone hair soaked and matting to his head. Spitting, he wipes again at his face and turns to find Idrilla and Cassandra already saddled up. Equipment latched and belted, ready to ride, the two just watch the Witcher though their expressions are vastly different. The Seeker’s is her so typical one of disgust but Idrilla, she leans forward on her mount and questions “You uh…good ta go?” with a lopsided look as she pats her blonde mare’s neck, “...cause ya look like death.”

“Ughhh,” Cassandra chastises with a groan, “I can smell him from here. The way he was…celebrating with those Chargers” but Idrilla fires off “Oh for fuh…FENEDHIS! Do I need ta hunt down a different Seeker ta bring along? Would ya quit it with that?”

With an eye roll, Cass confirms “I am more than capable, but only if he is able to comply with..”

“Tha’ shite. Exactly tha’. Right there. Stop it.”

Lips pinched in consternation, Cassandra begrudgingly spurs her steed, urging it trod toward the pass. Not quite ready to ride — the contents of his brain are still sloshing like a soup — Geralt just takes the chestnut’s lead line and walks alongside her. He’ll hop up eventually, just not quite yet. As they three pass the Charger’s camp, though most ignore them, a dwarven woman with a face full of tattoos _does_ click her tongue at the Witcher, whistling “fun time last night, duster” as she polishes her sword.

 _‘Who in the?,’_ Geralt struggles to recall, everything after his third drink a haze. To this, both Cass and Idrilla look back at the walking man but too busy puzzling, he simply growls “Fuck” as a catch all for the situation.

“I’d say so,” the Herald snorts in amusement, envy, “Lucky you.”

”Ughhhhh,” the Seeker scoffs, her eye roll almost tangibly felt.

**______**

Stabling their horses at Redcliffe Castle — some of these suspected Venatori offer to take over — Geralt ignores them as the mare nudges at his hands, looking for treats. “Sorry, Roach, I’ve got nothing,” he utters low in response and the horse mouths off, clacking its teeth together. “You’re right,” he whispers back and with her snort of a hot blast of air, he promises “If they have any sugar cubes inside, I’ll save em for you.”

“Why are you talking to your horse as if she were a human?,” the Seeker questions, a note of irritation furrowing her brow as they wait for the Herald to arrive. Idrilla made a slight detour to run the plan by that Dorian mage and told them two to go on ahead.

“Why wouldn’t I? They're better at conversation than most,” he replies only a representative of Alexius emerges outside the castle gates. A small escort of armed guards accompanying him, this thin man with an short, awful haircut demands “Where is the Herald? Our invitation was specifically for her,” all grim and pomp, holding himself very much like Solas would, the way he folds his hands behind his back. “My master does _not_ like to be kept waiting.”

Giving the mage a dead stare — and it certainly goes toward unnerving the curt, robed man — Cassandra answers “She will arrive shortly.”

“And wouldn’t sh...,” he starts to protest but the oncoming beat of hooves puts a pause on that agenda.

“Woah! Woah!! Easy, easy,” Idrilla comes tearing into the courtyard, her horse huffing and raring to really let loose, “Shit! Stop, stahhh!” but Geralt rushes in, hands raised, and manages to get the steed to slow down without throwing the elven lass ass over tits — hurrying to dismount, visibly glad to separate from her pale steed, she shouts to the Tevinter greeter “Sorry I’m late! Took langer than I thought it would gettin’ all tha’ elfroot” and slaps at her satchel…

 _‘Clever,’_ Geralt can’t help but note as he guides the riled horse to the stables, handing it off a robed agent within. “Where’s that riding skill you were boasting on the way here?,” Geralt cracks a toothless joke only for her to strongly correct with “Halla! Not tha’ damn monster, all fury an’..an’ piss! Regular halla are just fine fer me.”

Curious and concerned, bordering on suspicious, Cassandra begins to ask “Pardon but why was it so…”

“Bear.”

“A bear?”

“Mhm, Bear,” Idrilla confirms a second time but finally addressing the greeter — all irritably anxious over the delay — and his armed escort, she folds her arms and questions “Well? Whit’s th’ hold up.”

“I beg your pardon?,” he gawks at her gall, the nerve of her, and she shrugs “No, no pardons for you. Gonna tell Alexius all about how you kept us waitin’.”

“I-I did not!,” the greeter stamps his foot, “I’ve been _trying_ to hasten this inside! Now please, do come along!”

Shrugging, nothing more need be said to that humorless prick, Idrilla bids her companions follow with a wave but immediately the greeter insists “The Magister’s invitation was for Mistress Lavellan alone — the other two wait here.”

“Hm, then I suppose we’re all good right here,” she proposes and with a forced sigh, she adds “If Alexius really wants ta talk, I guess you’ll just have ta bring him outside.”

Narrowing his eyes, outmaneuvered by this simplest of plays, the greeter eyes the Seeker and Witcher before reluctantly agreeing with a single nod. To that, they’re in business and it’s a quick walk into the keep. Carvings of dogs adorn most everything in the main hall, stone and wood alike — it’s real curious place, this Ferelden, and their fetish for dogs.

“My Lord Magister, the agents of the Inquisition have arrived,” the blonde little greeter announces to the old man in his throne. A roaring fire at his back, Alexius stops his quiet conversation with his son and rises to say “My friend, it’s so good to see you again…” though eyeing the company she keeps, he tacks on “…and your associates, of course…” Again, Geralt spies the magister leering to Idrilla’s mark, almost lusting as he utters “…I’m sure we can work out some arrangement that is equitable to _all_ parties…”

“Am I to assume we have no voice in deciding out fate?,” Fiona pesters from beside the magister’s borrowed throne,

“Fiona, you would not have turned your followers over to my care if you didn’t trust me with their lives,” Magister Alexius reminds but with a wince, he returns to his throne of wood and iron only to start the negotiations, saying “The Inquisition needs mages to close the Breach and I have them. So…what will you offer in exchange?”

Lips pinched in thought, it’s a few seconds until The Herald uncharacteristically — as if trying to recite from memory — says “Th’ Inquisition has…many backers among th’ Orlesian nobility. I’m certain we can find suitable comp…compensation.” Struggled a little bit but she made it through.

“I’m not sure what the Orlesians can offer that I don’t already possess,” Alexius counters, “No, it will have to be something else, something more.”

“Oh. Sorry,” she breaks script, “thought you shem lords loved gold an’ war more than everything. Don’t really know whit else ta offer. How ‘bout…” Looking back at Cassandra and Geralt for answers or inspiration, Idrilla finally comes up with the bright idea of “My Witcher could teach ya a new type o’ magic?”

“What?,” Geralt growls and folds his arms, “Not happening.”

“Uhhhhhhh,” the Herald drones until the magister proposes “Your bless-ed hand. If you would allow me to study it, perhaps we could consider that a down payment. Do that and you can have…”

“No,” Idrilla states as flat as can be.

“Not a chance,” Cassandra agrees with The Herald.

“Hm,” Geralt grunts low but gives a curt shake of the head, his intended meaning obvious.

“They already know, Father. They know everything,” Felix springs the trap too early, giving them all away unnecessarily, and his father narrows his eyes, betrayed as he demands “Felix. What. Have. You. Done?”

“Ughh, why did? Damn it, fine, yes,” Idrilla grumbles while eyeing the son, her arms flopping to her sides, “Yer part of a cult. Well, yer son’s worried ‘bout ya. How ‘bout we cut ta th’ end where ya give up? Preferably peacefully.”

“You dare…you, you with your stolen mark, a gift you cannot begin to understand! And you think you are in control?,” the magister challenges with a stammering sneer, “Y-you are a..a mistake!”

“Oh, so ya do know whit it is…would ya care ta explain?,” Idrilla flaunts as several Venatori guards move to apprehend them.

“It belongs to your betters,” Alexius sneers, “You wouldn’t even begin to understand its purpose!”

“Father, do you even know what you sound like?,” Felix worries just as Dorian slips out from behind a column, arriving just in time to quip “I’d say he sounds exactly like the villainous cliché everyone expects us to be.”

“Dorian,” the magister threatens with eyes narrowing, “I…gave you a chance…a chance to be part of this — You turned me down. The Elder One has power you would not believe… he will raise the Imperium from its own ashes.” Venatori surround them but undaunted, Geralt just stands in wait like they’d planned — he’s not to draw steel unless they they openly attack. No turning this into a bloodbath unless absolutely necessary.

“Who is the Elder One, is he who murdered the Divine?!” Cassandra demands even as guards put hands to her and Alexius proclaims “Soon, he will become a god — he will make the world bow to mages once more — He will rule from the Boric Ocean to the Frozen Seas” with all the desperation and religious fervor of a true fanatic.

Terrified of the implications, of what she’s agreed to, Grand Enchanter Fiona cries “YOU CAN’T INVOLVE MY PEOPLE IN THIS!”

“Alexius, this is exactly what you and I talked about never wanting to happen! Why would you support this?,” Dorian furiously begs his old mentor and Felix chimes in with “Stop it, Father. Give up the Venatori. Let the Southern mages fight the Breach and let’s just go home.”

It’s a nice sentiment but as if desperate, the man grabs his son and almost panics as he rants “No! It’s.. it’s the only way, Felix. He. Can. Save. You!”

“Save me?”

“There is a way,” Alexius whispers as if the eyes of an angry god are upon him, “The Elder One promised…if I undo the mistake at the temple…”

“I’m going to die. You need to accept that,” the son replies with a tired sigh. For the moment, just that, Alexius is but a portrait of a terrified father, only then, remembering his crucial task, he shouts “VENATORI! Seize them! The Elder One demands that woman’s life!” Instead, however, a chorus of bloody gurgles and snapping necks sing from every corner. Metal has met flesh and blood has spilt, many of the guardsman murdered in the span of a breath…

Those remaining, they salute the Herald, proving to be Inquisition in disguise.

“Flipped it on ya,” Idrilla smirks while idly scratching at one ear.

But Alexius is having none of this, no, he rips aside his collar to yank free an amulet. Bristling with energy, nauseating to look upon as it seems to twist in on itself, the damn thing sparks and ignites in a potent green — holding it aloft, Alexius raves “You are a mistake! You never should have been!” Immediately gutting two Venatori closest him, Geralt whips his steel across the throne room at the magister…

Time slows.

Dorian cracks his staff against Alexius’ skull.

Misfiring, in a fury of veil fire and smoke, both Dorian and Idrilla vanish, scorch marks where they once stood…

…and Geralt’s blade severs Alexius’ hands from his wrists a mere blink later, the odd glowing cube dropping to the stone floor still tightly clutched in dying flesh. “AGHHHH,” the magister screams as his son panics. Hidden Venatori flood through the entrances. Cassandra grabs a nearby mage by the throat, using him as a shield as she stabs and slashes at any trying to get close.

They just keep coming.

“TAKE THEM!” Alexius screeches as his panicking son tries to staunch the flow of blood…

Sidestepping a fireball, Geralt grabs an enemy by the face and plunges his thumbs into their eyes before kicking them back into the building crowd — silver sword free, though not the best given the circumstances, he frenzies about, arcing this way and that, rapid slicing any who get close enough.

Two mages scream in agony, dropping to the floor at Cassandra’s touch. Slash, lunge, an aggressive parry, she brutalizes another two but finds herself by the Witcher and back to back as other Inquisition agents fall, they fight for their lives…

“TAAAaaake…th-them!,” Alexius cries again, pale as snow itself as he bleeds…

A group casting — multiple Venatori summon all the elements — but as they release, Geralt throws an Aard, detonating their spells in a dazzling storm of wild magic. Those closest burst like water balloons, blood painting the walls and ceiling. No time to think. He hurls his second sword, impaling yet another and whips back to grab the Seeker, pulling her close as he casts Quen. The aftershock hits. The shield strains. Teeth grit and sweat forming, he can only growl “Shit” as another attacks soon follows, arrows and spell bolts, all ricocheting and glancing off his barrier.

“Maker!,” the Seeker shouts in stunned revelation.

The sound of glass shattering finds them both wincing.

Quen explodes.

The room quakes and all Geralt can do is yell “BRACE YOURSELF” as the inevitable backlash hits them both so hard everything goes black…

**______**

  
  


“Fuck,” the Witcher growls in pain, rubbing at his scalp while noting the small cell he’s in. That, and his small clothes. They took everything. Thick iron bars, strong stone and stronger mortar, scrapings on the wall from previous guests counting their days…

More than a few of those scratches have fingernails still stuck in em.

Now this _is_ a dungeon, truly. Four by four, it’s a narrow coffin of a dwelling and through the bars there’s more along the opposite wall. Most are empty but at least three have some of the Inquisition agents locked within.

Two are unconscious…

One is dead, riddled with fresh stab wounds…

“You are awake,” comes Cassandra’s voice from the cell beside his own.

“Mhm,” is he grunts back, still adjusting to the conditions.

“You saved me. I would thank you…but it hardly matters now,” Cassandra laments despondently, “Any chance we had died with the Herald…”

“Maybe.”

She shuffles inside her cell, that’s what it sounds like she’s doing. He can almost feel her staring through the wall at him.

“We need to get that bauble.”

“What?,” she questions in a way that sounds incredulous.

“The amulet. Necklace. Whatever you need to call it.”

Catching on, still in disbelief that that’s where his mind would go, Cassandra whispers “That is insane. We are not mages!”

“Hm. No.”

“Then what do,” she starts to ask but hushes herself when she hears multiple boot steps in the hallway. In time, they pass, gone down some different hallway. Continuing, she asks “What do you propose?”

“Force the old man to send us back. Steal it and give it to another sorcerer. Either works for me.”

“Just like that?

“Needs work.”

“I should say so,” she comments, sounds as if she’s settling in…

“How long have we been here?”

“Two days I think? It is difficult to know for sure.”

“…If he’s alive, that magister prick will eventually pay us a visit. His type needs to have the last word.”

“And when he does, perhaps,” Cassandra begins to question just as the dungeon door swings open — Venatori dragging a half dead agent, they throw her battered body in the empty cell across from Geralt but before locking it up, they force a red crystal shard into a deep cut, sliding it under the skin. Disorientated, likely concussed, she groans but says nothing intelligible.

“Maker, what did they do to her?,” Cassandra stresses from her cell, out of sight. Geralt’s no stranger to this though. This was his childhood, a defining part of it at least. With a low growl rumbling in his throat, an old fear he’s long carried, he utters “Experimenting” while testing the strength of the iron barring his exit. It doesn’t budge but that doesn’t mean it won’t ever.

His back to the cell door, leveraging himself in such a way as to push, he wedges his feet against the wall…

**______**

“You have been trying for…I don’t know anymore. Days?,” Cassandra feels the need to say as if adding exposition. An agent in the other cell, the broken one, she groans feebly in response. “Yes,” Cassandra adds, “Days.”

“Hhhhh,” he grunts on yet another failed attempt, his legs and shoulder really getting sore from over exertion.

“Eloquent as ever,” she mocks in between bites of a moldy bread end.

“Hrmmmm,” he goes again, throwing an Aard against the back wall, really driving his shoulder into the metalwork. Though the bars rattle, dirt and bits of debris scatter across the floor, nothing else in the way of undermining the structural integrity seems to happen. It’s feeling pretty futile at present.

“Clearly it’s working,” she grumbles and tosses the bad bread — it actually clunks when it hits the floor. Real stale.

“Shut up.”

“You couldn’t make me if you tried. Just like you can’t make the door budge.”

Rotating his arm, trying to work out the tender muscles in his shoulder, he grunts back “If you have a plan, days ago would’ve been the right time to mention it.”

“Why discuss plans with a madman? You _were_ repeating the same task over and over with no change in results.”

“Just. Talk,” he huffs rather irritably.

She pauses — he can already imagine her rolling her eyes — but finally she scoffs “When next they attempt to feed us, we make our attempt. It _will_ be difficult but if we can get them close enough to the bars…”

“Grab them. Hm.”

“Yes.”

“Eloquent,” he mocks back though with an approving smirk.

“Shut up,” she fires back, “The question is how to lure them close enough…”

The minutes pass in relative silence amidst the groans of pain of the others in the dungeons, trapped in their unwaking nightmares…

Minutes more…

Finally, Geralt dares to offer “…Think I’ve got an idea…”

“Tell me,” she quietly demands and he counters with “How quick are you?”

“Just tell me.”

“You ever pretend to be sick?”

“That’s your plan? That they feel bad for me?,” she stresses and directs his attention to the others with a pointed hand slipping through her own bars, “I doubt that would work, all things considered.”

“There’s more.”

“I swear, you are purposely being vague to irritate me, aren’t you?”

“Just pretend.”

“Maker,” she groans…

**______**

  
  


Softly in her little corner, the Seeker whispers and whimpers, a strange thing to hear from her, indeed. But such is the ruse she must keep up. Fortunately, it isn’t long until the door creaks and throwing torn hunks of bread at the various prisoners, a guard works their way about the room. Avoiding Geralt’s dead eyed glare, the Venatori quickly steps past his cell but seeing the Seeker, he unwisely moves to kick the bars, shake her awake, and Geralt sticks an arm through the bars. With a quick drawing of a triangle, the mention of “Igni,” a burst of flame jets from his bare hand and taken off guard, trying to flee the attack, the guard crashes against Cassandra’s cell, back peddling right into her clutches. One hand around their throat, she mashes her other over their face and they scream into her palm, spasming until they black out on their feet. The execution; a quick twist of their neck finishes the job, so as not to raise alarm, Cassandra slides their limp body down the bars, careful like.

“The hell was that?”

Reticent but half explaining anyway, she comments “He had lyrium in his blood. If he didn’t react, I would’ve simply snapped his neck faster.”

“But why does that...,” he attempts at pressing the question as she feels about the mage, flipping back folds and turning out pockets, searching until she spits “Andraste preserve us — No keys. This was a wasted effort…”

“Could try again.”

“And what, they ignore the first body?”

“Hm,” he grunts in consideration before offering “Prop the guy up against the bars, pull his arms through? Make the next person curious?”

“That…ugh,” she gives pause, “That isn’t the worst plan out of your mouth. It _shouldn’t_ work but…will you be able to cast again?”

“Tired but yes.”

“Then…Maker... we shall try again?”

**______**

Dry coughing, the wet ones of a person drowning in their own blood…

An occasional whimper…

Weak groans to match the unconscious agents across the room…

The Seeker is doing an excellent job with this ruse, as much as it may pain her to play pretend.

Geralt lies in wait, listening for footsteps, his cue to cry out…

Finally, the sound of approaching boot steps, echoing off the walls..

“Cassandra!,” Geralt plays his way role, “Talk to me!”

She coughs and groans, curling into the corner of her cell.

“Guard! What’s happening?! Tell me!,” he demands of their prop, their dead Venatori.

“Ooohhh,” Cassandra groans in an act of feeble health

“What are you doing?!,” Geralt barks but then he picks up on several more sets of boots. This wasn’t the plan. It was supposed to be one, two tops. The door swings wide and a small group of Venatori guards enter the room, parting to allow someone of a higher station through…

“Hmm, so what have we here?,” this new player questions rhetorically, tapping at the corpse-ruse with his staff. As the body slumps, Geralt and Cassandra hiss “Damn it” and “Fuck.”

“Clever,” the mage comments before announcing “...But not clever enough. I am Legatus Arcadius and I’m afraid we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.” Caging his fingers around the focus skull of his staff, tapping at the temples, this Arcadius adds “…You think there’s some manner of escape. There isn’t. In fact, I dare say this quaint little … _castle_ … is your safest option all things considered. Anyway, whom... to... choose..”

Clicking his tongue, nodding to and fro, he eventually lands on Cassandra, merely pointing to her as the guards shove the corpse out of the way, aiming at her with some manner of spell, the casting of which is almost intoxicating. Almost drunk, sedated, they haul her lolling body from the cell and Geralt shouts “LET HER GO!” Even out of it as she is, restrained, she kicks one guard away and over to Geralt’s cell. Like a snake, he strikes through the bars, crushing at the guards throat and dragging the Tevinter enemy up the cell door to the stunned silence of the others. The room is filled with the awkward scratching and tugging, the wasted efforts of one trying to pry free of the Witcher’s vice…

…that is, until Arcadius indifferently asks “Now what?” of the Witcher, of his blue-in-the-face hostage, of anyone willing to answer. Though hidden in a cowl, his posture is all too easy to read; he’s bored.

“Release her,” Geralt demands, his threat an obvious one, the guard’s life for the Seeker’s.

“Fasta vass, this is no good,” the Legatus tuts, clicking his tongue like some mother hen, and getting in closer, he looks up to the trembling hostage only to say “You failed the Elder One… You know what you must do, yes?”

Hot tears drip past Geralt’s bare clenching fingers and breathing sharply, his cat eyes flicking between targets, he almost misses the hostage touching their fingers to their chin. Even choked of air, terrified, they manage to squeak out “Vitae…bene..far…ia.”

A suicide note, a curse.

The hostage goes slack in his grip.

Dead. They forfeited their life. No show of force, not dazzling display of chaos or magic. It’s just death.

“Now then,” that Arcadius comments, “We have all the time in the world but even we are running late. Hurry now,” clapping his hands to hasten his men as they drag the Seeker from the room.

“SEEKER!,” Geralt roars through the bars, beating and throttling the cell door only to hear her shout back “WITCHER!” and have the dungeon door slam shut.

“SHIT!,” he assaults the steel to no avail, pounding away at it until his flesh bruises.

“DAMN IT!”

**______**

Days don’t matter.

Can’t even count guard rotations.

They don’t even bother watching the door, so confident in their superiority.

One meal a day. That’s all he can rely on. They hurl the stale ends near his cell and leave before he can even spy them…

Something is wrong with the other agents, they’ve all gone still, muttering incoherently or spasming. Broken is more like it. The woman from before, she whispers to the walls…

Another, even unconscious, he can’t stop coughing blood…

Approaching boots from down the hall, echoing off stone…

A key is jammed in the dungeon door and with a scrape, the lock is undone.

They’re dragging someone by the sound of it…

With the heavy crash of the cell door beside his own, waiting for the Venatori to leave, Geralt ultimately asks “Seeker?”

“Ughhhhhh,” she genuinely groans in pain, “They wanted answers. Ones I do not…have.”

“So torture then.”

“Yes,” she huffs. From the sound of it, she’s trying to find a comfortable position in her own cell. Geralt has found the meditation stance on his knees to be the most agreeable in these cramped and dire times. Adding on, Cassandra whispers “They want to know how the Herald…”

“Got that light up scar, yeah, I figured,” Geralt grunts, “They never shut up about it.”

“Have they tried questioning — aghhh — questioning you?,” she asks. Way she’s breathing, the way she’s wincing when she talks, she probably has a broken rib or two. Not good. Not that he expects the two of them to live that long down here…

“Not yet. Don’t think they know what to do with me.”

“Or they’re concocting a rev..revenge scheme. You _did_ cut off the magister’s hands.”

“So I’ll get special treatment. Hm.”

“I am not…ahhh..envious of you.”

“People usually aren’t.”

The castle quakes as if struck by siege warfare. Maybe a ballista bolt or a trebuchet load. Could be a good sign.

Dust rains from the ceiling.

Inquisition agents groan in their cells, the minds of the two still unconscious long lost to the world. Considering they haven’t eaten in all their time here, it makes little sense that they still live.

“Thank you for trying,” she winces, “To free me.”

“I failed.”

“But you tried.”

**______**

It’s gone from bad to worse. Whatever experiments those Tevinter bastards have been running, the dark fruits of their labor are blossoming. The dead agent in the cell, something is growing like coral from his rotting wounds, an evil red like the shard they inserted weeks ago. It started slow but has veined, following the grooves in between the stones, tracing the path of mortar…

…or more realistically, the spilt blood, dried or otherwise.

The dungeon reeking of corpse rot and voided bowels — those agents made crazy, they’ve contributed their fair share — this room is a veritable pit of death and decay. Soon, even the rodents will learn to keep a distance.

Everyone should.

 _Should_.

Only an armed escort comes barging in, ruining this scenic destination. They part for their master and in struts Magister Alexius with a fresh, young pair of hands. Magically quickened scar tissue rings the wrists. They aren’t his, but even restored as he is, Alexius isn’t as confident a victor as he should be…

…but with his being here, deigning to wallow in this filth for a word, he has plans, that much is clear.

“…I have been toying with ideas since your… interruption,” Alexius mocks as he glares down his nose at the Witcher in his cage, “What to do? What to do? At first I thought to take your hands but it occurred to me how odd they would look. You’re much larger than I am…”

Geralt just waits patiently. He’s got nothing to say to this prick. Let him do all the talking…

“…I thought to just slit your throat and get it over with but that felt rather uninspired,” Alexius continues to speak, “I could stake you to the castle walls so you can watch as this world burns…”

Under her breath, Cassandra utters “What?” in concern.

“A slow death, bleeding out as the Elder One’s demons sweep the nation. But then I had a thought,” Alexius coughs.

“Just the one?,” Geralt prods back. May as well now.

“Heheheh, yesss,” Alexius feigns amusement but smiles wickedly all the same, “You see, the information I have pried from the tongues of your Inquisition indicates you are not a simple brute but something… different. But what? I wonder… The rumors and stories they tell of you, a master demon slayer, a mage who isn’t a mage, a man who fell from the sky, who fought becoming a Darkspawn and actually succeeded… but which is true? All or none? I intend to find out…”

No quips just yet, Geralt just sits and stares, trying to maintain an air of indifference and not grabbing the bastard through the bars, dashing him against them until the magister’s a bloody pulp. He could try but that wouldn’t suit him just yet…

“Your silence speaks volumes,” Alexius boasts, “I thought so. I have something special in store for you…”

“How’s Felix?,” he growls out the stabbing remark, his smirk lopsided, his cat eyes mean and narrowed.

A nerve hit, seething, Alexius spits “Take him!” and storms out of the dungeon. Through the cell door, several mages line up and muttering in a foreign tongue, they group cast…

It glances off Geralt, his natural mutagenic resistances acting as a buffer, but that can only last so long. It takes minutes more of sustained casting — during which Alexius intently observes — and eventually, Geralt’s energy vanishes, consciousness slipping away…

For good measure, they come at him with cudgels as everything fades to black.

One of em gets in a good swing at least….

**______**

“Day 20,” Arcadius, on this little revenge project, dictates as his subordinates take notes, “The subject is immune to standard poisons and toxins. Though we established he _does_ possess an increased healing reaction, we never anticipated this. Bearing that vector mind, the Blight rumor regarding the subject _could_ actually be true.”

“Eat shit and die,” Geralt curses with an exhausted growl. Strapped to the examination table, there’s little else he can do at present. They’ve been poking and prodding, poisoning and cutting every damn day just to watch and record what happens next.

“His eyes,” the lead utters while ignoring the Witcher’s insult, “Carefully remove one — I don’t care which — and do take note of any scar tissue you might find. I want to know if the subject was transmuted or cobbled together.” Immediately his underlings move to the table, two holding Geralt’s head in place even as he tries his best to jerk and twist, his furious growling course and gutteral…

With a quick twist of his fingers, Quen snaps down around him but they know this trick.

They can wait.

They have time.

They stand about until the gesture dies, until the summoned chaos fades with the Witcher’s failing stamina…

They muzzle him like the animal they think he is. Can’t bite at them now…

Eyelids are held back, smooth metal prongs slid under.

Surgical instruments slice at soft tissue, not a drop of sedative afforded him….

Half his world fills with blood before going black.

Huffing with rage, he can only glare impotently as they drop the stolen piece of him in an observation jar full of formaldehyde, for study, for preservation.

Someone is jamming sterile rags in the gaping socket…

“…appears to be original. His own,” an underling examining the jar comments to Arcadius, “…no scarring. The optical nerve is human. The musculature is standard. Really, only the pupils and iris show any significant alteration…”

“Marvelous,” the lead grins at the evidence, “Then we know the subject was either born this way or manufactured through other means. This is good, ahaha.”

Aard will just flip the table over. Igni won’t do much, there isn’t enough flammable material around. Yrden is useless right now. Quen can just be waited out again…

‘ _Axii it is_ ,’ Geralt seethes to himself while trying to be more subtle about signing this time. An inverted triangle, Geralt struggles to see but locks on one of the subordinates milling about. _‘Get me out_ ,’ is all Geralt tries to convey, to convince, and maybe it’s his rage fueling him, giving that much needed boost or focus, but the robed man actually looks to be in a daze. Eyes glazing over, pupils dilating, he slowly staggers toward the table, their surgical knife loosely grasped…

Slow and steady, they slice at the heavy leather restraints, but eight cuts deep, the apprentice’s head suddenly explodes and showers the Witcher in viscera and grey matter.

“What do I always say?,” Legatus Arcadius hums out in question, his staff lowering with its socketed focal gems still smoking.

“Keep up mental wards!,” the underlings chant in unison.

As the dead apprentice crumples, they don’t even hit the ground before flesh bubbles and purples, and a demon tears itself from their flesh like a butterfly from its cocoon. Only, it doesn’t attack. It just stands there, flexing its new physical form, dragging its razor nails through the air at its sides. Not at all surprised by the event, the other researchers just go about their business though the lead chuckles out “Ha, I didn’t know Dantri bound himself to a demon. Well? What are you standing around for?”

“ **You dare presume to command me, mortal?** ,” the horror demands, confused and angry.

“Yes, obviously. It’s your own fault for binding with one of a lower station. Now you have three choices. Stay and test the subject. Guard the halls. Go forth and wage war on Ferelden,” the lead researcher informs while barely batting an eye at the monster, too busy looking over paperwork and notations…

“ **I…shall remain,** ” the demon thunders its choice only to be handed a clipboard and scalpel, both of which it clutches awkwardly, its gnarled hands ill conforming to such mundane items. “ **What is my task?** ,” it questions, examining the glinting blade.

“Carve a few skin samples from the subject’s forearm — only the first few layers of epidermis, we don’t want him bleeding out — and date them.”

“ **Yyyyes** ,” the demon moans, pleased with that direction and it takes no time getting started — Geralt can only spit and growl in protest as it takes to slicing at him over and over and over…

**______**

Months maybe pass as the experiments progress, everything done from taking spit and blood, skin samples and hair, even going so far as to core out samples of the marrow in his bones. Even gone so far as to steal a kidney and cut a sample from his liver. They’ve tried tainting him over and over, anything to see if the rumors held true. Strangest thing though, Blight doesn’t seem to take to him, not like that time on the Storm Coast. It’s as if his body developed the antibodies or resistance necessary to survive a second encounter. But that doesn’t mean he’s the model of health and vitality…

Ragged.

Drained.

Grotesque to say the least.

He’s grown weak strapped to that table, slipping away in that hell hole of his own waste and blood. Gaunt, his features hollow, every inhale and exhale is one of pain. But even with his labored breathing, even damaged as he is, he can still hear that torturous bastard in the hallway taking to his underling…

“Another subject? When? This morning… who is to study her? Tiberius? He’s more butcher than a scholar… he’ll have a Templar aiding him? Curious but I suppose it doesn’t matter. I’m confident I am nearing the end with our own test subject.”

Muffled, can’t quite make out the other…

“…I’m irritated I didn’t notice sooner, but the subject’s very makeup is enhanced by some combination of magic, potion, and some as of yet uncovered X factor. It really is extraordinary…”

The fucker is smiling. Geralt can almost hear it in they way he’s talking…

“…After I’ve exhausted this resource? Oh, I’ll just replicate what we did to that Seeker woman. Yes, of course I mean to force feed the red! What? What else would I do with such a resilient creature?...”

Screams echo through the halls beyond the examination room. Must be the aforementioned other subject…

“Hehehe, no, he will either turn or he’ll be sustenance for the crop. Simply killing him does nothing.”

The door opens and shuts, that bastard enters and with a spring in his step, he almost hums “Time for another round of bleeding!”

The once-a-witcher, he tries to spit but instead it dribbles past cracked lips…

“Still some fight in you, Subject A?,” the mad man chuckles while dragging a stool. Sitting beside the husk of Geralt, Arcadius makes a deep cut along the same vein that already suffered so much — blood slowly drips, Geralt’s heartbeat still a stagnant and measured thing by most standards, and his essence creeps along the copper path embedded in the table and tap tap taps into the collection basin…

“Shall we find what makes you tick?,” he beams down at Geralt’s lonely eye and the no-longer-a-witcher huffs out a “F..fuck off.”

“Soon, yes,” the man cheerily agrees, “I’ll find what I am looking for and as you say, fuck off, ahahaha.”

**______**

The keep is wrong, off. It’s been ages since he last heard the screams so frequent in these walls…

Crystals grow from the corners and crevices…

The castle groans like an old ship at sea…

Too weak to fight back, he doesn’t even growl as his perpetual tormentor cuts another section of skin of for study.

Death would be a sweet release at this point.

His innards twist and tremble, they’ve advanced to the next stage of testing…

The red they crushed and forced down his throat some days ago, it’s already in horrid bloom like choking wisteria, tangling and digging in with thorns. Worse still, he’s having trouble hating the sensation. Like lying in front of a warm hearth on a cold winter morning,..

He can barely keep his eye open…

His body is trying to fight a losing battle against the crystal growing inside. With his lone eye he can see the evidence, the grit beneath his nails, the red growing through the sensitive skin if he arches himself on the table right.

The castle rumbles; as bizarre a thought as it is, it almost feels like it just crashed, like a ship grinding a sandbar, but that doesn’t disturb the incoherent whispers and the moans of the crystallizing damned in the rooms beyond. Though a gruesome sight to behold — he knows what a wretched thing he’s been reduced to — Geralt’s not so far gone as to have his senses dulled and left to collect dust like so many jars containing bits of him on high shelves.

A loud pop sounds off in the distance…

Even deadened as he is, he knows the sound of a man exploding by heart. Someone just detonated.

Footsteps approaching. One light and barefooted. The second, soft leather scuffing stone.

“Aghhhh,” someone shouts only to have their alert turn to a death rattle, their sound fading to a gurgle and a crumple as their now dead body hits ground.

“…Assuming she’s sane,” a man voices concern, “she _was_ mostly red lyrium. Don’t know how much elf she really is anymore…”

“I’m just stuck on th’ bit about it bein’ a whole year.”

“Uhhh, I…just had a thought…”

“Just th’ one?,” a familiar voice absently questions in a more familiar brogue, her attention elsewhere.

“If blood is needed to feed red lyrium….why is it growing from the walls? Do I even want to know?”

“Wait, shhh,” she says — hinges creak as the dungeon door creeps open — gagging on the rancid conditions, doing her best to hold her breath by the sound of it. Geralt must be flayed something fierce, despicable to look upon, some nightmare told around a campfire for the three that enter, they try to avoid looking upon him.

Idrilla Lavellan. It should be impossible, her being here… And that mage, Dorian, he leans in behind her, wary of getting any closer, hesitant to touch anything in this pit of gore and slow death. “Fuck off, ghosts,” Geralt can barely whisper, convinced he’s finally snapped. He hasn’t heard whispering yet but what a day to start.

“Impossible,” Cassandra barely breathes from behind the other two, looking quite the mess herself, “You died. They took you. You…you’re just another whisper.” Filthy clothes, greasy hair down to her shoulders, dark veining under all her skin, a red aura lingers about her. They got to her. They gave her the red like they did him. But dropping her sword to the ground in a clatter, she staggers to his side and says “I tried..tried to get free” and looking his horrid body over, she whispers with metallic intonation “I am sorry.”  
  


“You’re real?”

”Y-yes,” this shell of Seeker utters and repeats, “...sorry.”

“Don’t…be,” he Geralt struggles to reply, that same metal reverb emanating from his vocal cords.

“Uh, pardon, but who is that?,” Dorian questions with his nostrils wrinkled, pointing to the Witcher on his table, “And…where is his hair and so much of his skin and…Kaffas, they took his..his..his…”

“I…see it,” Idrilla gapes, slack jawed in horrified revelation, “in th’…jar. Next ta th’ eye. In th’ other jar.”

“No words. This is…I’ve no words,” Dorian stammers out, looking soon to vomit but guarding his own loins with a hand as if the same will befall him. Cassandra though, she at least has the good sense to ignore Geralt’s ruinous appearance, careful as she unbinds him. Though broken, though weak, he peels himself off, dried blood cracking and chipping, hissing as his flayed skin tries to stick to the metal and wood…

“Easy,” the Seeker protests, helping him rise, “You should be dead but you aren’t…”

“Wanted to. Didn’t seem to take,” Geralt growls back, the red crystal feeding off him from the inside giving him just a boost in kind. The same aura on Cassandra, it lights up around his own like some specter of death clinging his vessel. But isn’t that what it is? A promise of inevitability…

“We are going…after Alexius,” Cassandra promises with an arm given in support and he growls “Count me in.”

“We aim ta reverse all this,” Idrilla explains pragmatically, “Get th’ cube. Do some magic. This ever happens.” She’s stuck looking at the floor, tying to avoid everything of note...

“My god. Wait..just that’s..that’s the Witcher fellow!? I…I didn’t..,” Dorian panics out and shoving past the mage, Geralt spits “Shut. Up.”

“Wait! Wait… what happened?,” Dorian tries to ask, likely in some ill-mannered attempt at distracting himself from the atrocities abound. He’s a chatty one, prone to rambling and ranting where others might go quiet.

“Fuck off,” Geralt commands while grabbing a spear from the rigor-mortis death grip of a corpse in the the hallway, left to rot but kicked to aside.

“Now now,” Dorian tries to diffuse the tension, “I was just trying to..”

“Fuck off!” both Geralt and Cassandra threaten while pushing on ahead of the Herald and the mustachioed magister. Eager to finish this or die trying, unarmored — one far less so than the other — they walls the halls, following the bloody tracks left by the Venatori…

Rounding a corner…

Up a short flight of stairs…

Through an eerily abandoned mess hall and past more empty bunks…

More empty hallway, water flooding the floors but sitting stagnant…

Rounding another and passing some more lifeless rooms — one of which has a dead Chantry mother bound in chains to a damn boulder of the glowing red shit — the hisses of one still alive emanates from just ahead, a room unchecked. From crack beneath the heavy door, shadows move and one within, they overhear one madman raving “There is no Maker!” as another spits “The Elder One took all that is his and will soon rule from his city.”

A woman, exhausted and agonizing by the sound of it, she finds the strength to mock “That still doesn’t make him a god” followed by the swift crack of a backhand on bare flesh.

“There _is_ no God _but_ the Elder One,” barks the first with metallic tones, “The Maker is dead! Say it!”

“Never,” protests the woman just as the four slink in. Idrilla and Dorian they both hurl fire at the mage in the corner while Geralt hefts his spear. The second enemy pivots, shrugs off the attack but the gnarled woman dangling from the ceiling strikes. Legs wrapping around the Templar’s neck, she violently twists her body, snapping the man’s neck and letting him drop.

“That was long overdue, Cullen,” a carved up Leliana boasts from her suspension but glancing toward the four, she utters “You’re alive?” in disbelief.

The dying Templar clinging to life with eyes painfully wide, the abundance of crystals piercing his skin struggling to keep him alive, they must’ve broken him. As big a dick as he’d been to Geralt, no one deserved whatever he was now…

This is all too surreal, especially so as Idrilla answers “We’re gunna stop this future. We… have ta get th’ necklace” as Cassandra unlocks her.

“Not good enough,” the redhead spouts, “Alexius dies this day” and stomps down on Cullen’s throat, ending the poor man’s suffering.

“Tha’ too,” the Herald replies but Geralt is already staggering toward the door, growling “Let’s finish this while I’m still alive.”

“You all have weapons?,” Leliana questions as she plucks a butcher’s knife from the array of torture instruments on the table.

“I’ll get another,” the Witcher growls as Cassandra falls in beside him, helping him along. He clearly doesn’t want his spear returned — it’s not his preferred weapon.

“Fine. The Magister’s probably in his chambers,” Leliana offers while striding along behind them, leaving Dorian and Idrilla to follow up the rear, visibly shaken. Dorian finally finds his voice again, doing exactly what he did to Geralt so short a time ago, asking “You…don’t want to know how we got here?” albeit reticently.

“No,” the Spymaster states rather flatly, distracted by the prospect of revenge.

Not getting the hint even as Idrilla elbows him, Dorian continues in to inform “Alexius sent us into the future. This. His victory, his Elder One — it was never meant to be. We have to reverse his spell; if we can get back to our present time, we can prevent this future from ever…”

“ENOUGH!,” she commands with a grimace, her face missing carefully extracted chunks of skin, “Stop it. Stop trying to fill the silence with your words. This is all pretend to you, some future you _hope_ will never exist. I suffered,” and flicking her hand toward the Witcher and Seeker, “We. Suffered. The whole world suffered. This _was_ real.” With that said, the three who lived through hell itself move on, advancing toward their goal, leaving Idrilla and Dorian behind.

“I was using my elbow,” Idrilla glares daggers at the mage, “How much more obvious do I need ta be?”

“I was just getting information!”

“Time an’ a place, Dorian. Time an’ a fucking place,” Idrilla laments as they follow behind…

**______**

A décor of rubble and blood, tattered skin on crumbling stone, the keep is in a state beyond disrepair… Stumbling along, careful not to trip over the bones of the dead, and searching this half of the castle, they managed to collect red key shards while butchering the few remaining venatori. Whatever bulk of forces once resided in this keep, whatever demons dwelt before the Veil was torn asunder, it’s almost empty now.

Redcliffe castle is but a Mabari hound themed marker for a mass grave.

Dorian slips the shards into their respective ports…

Light floods the channels carved into the stonework…

A series of clicks, the split hisses as it allows in more fresh air, opening wide for these unauthorized few...

“I’m gunna kill you an’ you know it,” Idrilla threatens as she storms in, lining up her shot while charging the end of her staff with fire energies dragged from the Fade.

Despondent, haunted, the magister who only sought to protect his son now stands defeated. That much is obvious from his stance, his attitude. Flat, emotionless, he explains “I knew you would appear again… not that it would be now… but I knew I hadn’t destroyed you.” Taking a breath, a pause, he grips a torn tapestry of Mabari and utters “…my final failure.”

“Was it worth it?,” Dorian questions of his mentor while briskly keeping in step with the Herald, “Everything you did to this world? To yourself?”

“It doesn’t matter now. All we can do is wait for the end,” Alexius chuckles sadly. Turning to face them, he utters “The irony that you should appear now, of all the possibilities” and he finds Felix at knife point, Leliana ready to drive it deep. Dorian and Idrilla both have fire in hand, battle magics eager to fly. Cassandra and Geralt cover the door, dulled and bloodstained weapons in hand. Oddly, the Magister wears a mask of indifference — or perhaps depression has hollowed him out — and with a shrug, he sighs “Please, just finish what I’ve started.”

“Then give us the amulet,” Dorian pleads of his mentor, “We can fix this” only Leliana threatens “NOW” as she draws blood. The vacant minded ghoul of a son in her grip, it doesn’t even register the cut to its neck flesh…

“I once thought that was the answer,” he listlessly comments and pulls the magical item from the neckline of his noble robes. Staring into the depths of the energetic stone, the churning, winding form basking in an aura of bent space time, he mutters “It never works…”

“Fuck tha’,” Idrilla barks while casting uneasy glances back to her corrupted companions, certain this is all too easy, that an ambush is soon to follow, “Just give it ta Dorian. We’ll make it work.”

With a roll of his shoulders, his sad eyes clenching closed, he underhand tosses the item to Dorian, relinquishing all control on this situation though if it must be said, he did that long ago. As if in response however, rumbling its discontent, the castle quakes. Braziers rattle, dust falls, the very building cracking at the seams.

“He knows I’m betraying him,” Alexius sighs while taking his staff from beside a work desk, lining it up under his chin, “Dorian. You should work quickly….”

Something yowls from back behind them…

“Alexius!,” Dorian pleads of his mentor, trying to unpuzzle the amulet in hand, sparks flying…

Claws scrape stone….

Nudging Cassandra, Geralt cocks a look back toward the chamber behind them and gleaning his intent, she sadly nods in kind. Prying a crystal from the door’s locking mechanism, she tosses it, clattering across the floor toward Leliana and before anyone can respond, the Witcher and Seeker haul the heavy doors shut.

Light flares, the lock magically reinitiating itself…

Geralt let’s Yrden roll off fingers as he draws an hourglass, further sealing the entry

… and with purple light illuminating them, they spin just as the first of several demons comes storming into the hall…

Though a muffled bang sounds from behind the closed doors, Cassandra and Geralt are resigned to their fate, trusting in the Herald and her Tevinter mage to find a way out of this apocalypse scenario. Swords raised, they’re already dead. This last stand is just their final say on the matter…

“Are you ready, Geralt?,” the Seeker questions with her twin maces raised and ready.

“Ready to get this over with,” the Witcher sighs with his glaive gripped tightly, not trusting his grip, “ See you on the other side, Cassandra.”

“I actually hope so.”

“Hm,” he grunts approvingly.

The demons rush…

Hacking and chopping, parrying but taking razor damage and what little skin he has cracking, blood spills as the Fade howls from the locked room. Again the castle shudders only now the eye of a angry god is upon them — the ceiling splits open and falls up into the nauseating green of the skies above…

In that moment of distraction, dagger fingers slip through the shallow skin of his throat and Geralt can only shudder as he’s lifted off the ground. Bleeding out, jugular gaping, the world blurs and fades to grey and fades to black, all the sounds warbling and distorting as life literally flees his corpse…

**______**

An explosion of veil fire and smoke.

Geralt winds up to throw his sword but glaring, furiously questioning ‘ _Wait. What?,’_ the reality of things snap back into place and a migraine wrenches his brain. Alexius fumbles with his amulet just as Idrilla and Dorian simply step from the violent nexus. Terrified, the magister stumbles backwards into his throne to escape as Idrilla unceremoniously knees him in the crotch.“Fen’Harel’s asshole, I should kill you fer puttin’ us through tha’ horror show,” she curses him and smashes the amulet with a summoned shard of ice.

“Father!,” Felix cries but wincing sympathetically and ignoring the son, Dorian quips “Should. But know I’m glad you’re feeling so magnanimous, striking him when death was certainly on the table” as Alexius whimpers in pain, sliding to the floor, clutching tightly to the nether parts through his ornate robe.

“W-what just happened!?,” Cassandra worries, clutching her own head, demanding answers but looking as shaken as Geralt.

“Magister Alexius was kind enough ta give me my Mages,” Idrilla glares daggers down at the hobbled nobleman still wincing in pain, “Isn’t tha’ right?” Bloodied, scraped, cuts up and down her arms, whatever happened in that blast of light must’ve gotten her good. Dorian though, equally bruised and battered, he knocks his staff end against the floor, saying “I should say so. He’s no fool. He knows when he’s lost.”

“Loss,” Alexius utters through welling tears but his son crouches beside him, whispering “It’s okay Father. It’s better this way.”

“But you’ll…ermm die…”

“Everyone does,” Felix smiles, trying his utmost to cheer up his dearly defeated dad only Geralt sours whatever uplifting there is to be had, growling “Fucking tie him up already” and goes stomping from the throne room, jamming his gloved thumb against his temple to alleviate the pain. Leaving the others behind, in need of fresh air, the Witcher shoves his way through the surrendering Venatori agents until he’s free and staring to the skies without…

Sure, there’s a big puckered asshole of a Breach still sitting ugly up there but somehow it feels right. His body is buzzing with pain it shouldn’t have and he can’t shake the feeling that something tragic happened. To that, breathing deep, he curses “Fuck Destiny” only the scuff of leather boots behind him tells him he’s not alone. “Hm. Seeker,” he says, merely informing her he knows her presence.

“Witcher,” she replies a little less coldly than usual, “Is Destiny some tavern wench you’re fond of?”

“That a joke?,”’ he questions while covering his left eye, trying to feel out what’s wrong, before growling “There’s a Destiny in every brothel from Rowan to Kovir but no, I’m talking about Fate. That type of Destiny, that bullshit.”

“Obviously I don’t know those places but of course such would be the case,” she huffs over the wenches admission but seems to be shouldering hidden pains herself, “But why curse something like Destiny? You don’t strike me as someone with an abundance of faith in much beyond yourself.”

He takes a moment to consider his thoughts on the matter, to find the right words given his experiences. After a minute’s pause, he replies “Destiny is real but a real vicious cunt. It’ll fuck you against the cliffs like a ship in a raging storm.”

Surprisingly not put off by his crass tongue, she saunters closer, leaning against the same wall and taking in the same skyward view as she comments “…that is certainly one truth.”

“Hm. There’s others?”

“Yes. What you say is true, that the Maker or your notion of Destiny can indeed set you to ruin and despair but could those not be signs that you are off course? That you are intended for greater things? There could be a path.”

Dropping his hand, flatly staring at the seeker, Geralt growls “Lady. My being here is one fucking gigantic off course sign”

A snort abruptly escapes her and she has to stifle a laugh but in doing so, cocks her head and clears her throat to say “I…can see your point.” Getting a touch more serious though, she straightens her posture and comments “…I am glad whatever happened, worked.”

“Hm?”

“Do you not remember the bits of it? It’s like a half-remembered nightmare scratching at the back of my neck…”

“Oh, that time rift shit. I can feel it, if that’s what you mean. Don’t really remember much, just everything hurts,” he rasps while flexing and stretching, trying to work out the invisible kinks still burdening him.

“Well, take the time you need,” she sighs, “We’ll likely be here another day while we organize the mages and arrange for travel, hopefully without further incident.” With that, Cassandra takes her leave, going back in to likely help with the arrests that are certainly taking place. Geralt though, he just slides down the wall, sitting in the grass, resting…

He could easily fall asleep right here, right now…

Feels like forever since he slept…


	14. Chapter 14

Witchers and Kings are akin to oil and water. They don’t mix and it’s wise not to make the attempt. The following day, as the Inquisition’s Herald and her agents were just about to lead her brand new mages back to that village headquarters, some blonde idiot with a crown came marching in with a medium scale army of a five hundred. Seeing they’re just soldiers, however, even they’re but a paltry thing when compared to the destructive capacity of that the formerly rebel mages. Then again, had things gone South as things so often do, this Ferelden army could’ve proven a worthy opponent.

And to think, if only this King Alistair had arrived days earlier and saved them all the trouble.

Geralt made sure he was scarce for that particular chewing out, the potential royal reprisal. At least it would’ve been had he been around. Such is the way of things when Witchers interfere with politics. Instead, he was content to merely enjoy this new Roach’s company. No politicking necessary.

In the following days, Geralt kept to himself, riding Roach at the distant edges of the enormous group by day and trying to ignore the utterly bizarre sensation that he’d been grievously injured despite all evidence to the contrary by night. As tired as he was, the solace of sleep eludes him and he was left with only his thoughts…

_These mages pale in comparison to those back at Areruza..._

_Fuck, they whine a lot…_

_Elf just had to smash that amulet…_

_God damn it._

_I’ll figure something out, Yen. Not sure how but…_

_Where the hell is Triss??_

_Why the fuck does everything hurt?!_

During that long walk, where Idrilla, Dorian, or Cassandra looked for him, Geralt made sure not to be. He was exhausted on every level — emotionally, mentally, physically — and only time alone could replenish and reinvigorate…

Eventually, they’d all gotten to Haven just as the morning sun was rising, not a single attack or incident along the way. Upon returning though, the Commander and Spymaster had that Fiona elf arrested and shackled with some manner of allegedly enchanted braces right alongside Magister Alexius.

To do so in front of all her followers, reckless.

But hopping up on a crate to quash the whispers and umbrage, Idrilla shouts out “Every single one o’ ya is on probation but yer all free. Congratulations an’ welcome ta what I’ve always known. You mess up though? Yer goin’ right in th’ same damn cell as Fiona.”

From over by the stables, brushing down Roach and offering her a handful of sweet grass, Geralt hears the grumbles of many a mage from that enormous audience, many more of whom cry out “WHY?” and “BUT FIONA IS OUR...”

“Because she stupidly sold you all inta slavery ta th’ damn thing tha’ killed th’ Divine an’ blew up th’ Conclave!,” Idrilla snaps with too heavy a brogue to clearly understand but fortunately Lady Josephine steps forward to more calmly dictate “First Enchanter Fiona made a critical error in aligning you with the group suspected of assassinating the Divine. For that reason, she has been arrested and will receive a fair trial. As for every other free mage, you are most welcome in this camp and we thank you for your aid in closing the Breach.”

That seems to appease the lot of them — they understood her. Then again, Miss Montilyet certainly has that ability, to charm and sweet talk an angry mob. But as Geralt continues grooming his horse, yet again the shadow of Bull falls over him and the giant quietly rumbles “So… rumor has it that Magister guy was manipulating time” as he leans against the support post.

“Hm.”

“Doesn’t sound like a no.”

“Wrong guy to ask,” Geralt stubbornly denies and flicking his head off toward the irritated Herald, offers “She’s the one you wanna talk to. Her, or that Dorian guy.”

“No. You know more than you’re letting on.”

”I’m really not.”

“Oi, Chief, we need to get back to training,” Lieutenant Krem reminds the great horned man from back on the frozen shoreline, running drills with the other Chargers — they’re running suicide sprints from the look of it — but Bull relents, humming “Weird shit gets weirder” in consideration as he stomps off and away.

Deciding he’s too open here, too exposed and available for conversation, Geralt puts away the brush and abruptly departs, walking the long way around back into Haven’s inner walls.

Beyond the forge, pushing up a lonesome trail, he kicks off a small ledge and climbs over the wall of sharpened logs, deftly avoiding damage. Ignoring the few engineers shooting him wary glances as they work on calibrating a trebuchet, Geralt continues on, his objective to merely get back to Minaeve’s room in the dungeon hallway, to claim peace and quiet, to simply study monsters…

But somehow utterly clandestine in his steps, Solas falls in beside the Witcher and questions “I understand you are likely weary from your journey but I meant to ask…”

“Say your piece. Quickly,” Geralt growls without slowing.

“Ah, how did you know that the silver dust would adversely affect the rift in Redcliffe?”

“Guessed,” he vaguely replies while avoiding a group of Chantry sisters singing a hymnal outside the tavern.

“Based on what evidence?”

“The only evidence. Silver hurts demons,” he growls and goes to pull the Chantry doors open but Solas plants a hand, offering little in the way of actual resistance. It’s but a gesture and in doing so, Solas presses “In what way? I’ve never seen such to be the case.”

Exhausted by people, the so many people and their need to talk, Geralt heavily sighs out “Works for me.”

“Hmm, curious. I don’t believe that a universal constant but I’ll look into it…”

“Hm.”

“…and I do believe you’ve had your fill of conversation. Take care,” Solas politely says and withdraws his hand, letting the Witcher do as he damn well pleases…

**______**

Dead drowners piled up some yards away, just enough distance from them not to reek…

A fire crackles as thin grey trailers of smoke waft upwards.

Nary a draft this evening.

A Bard and a Witcher, they’ve made camp and as Roach quietly knickers at a nearby bush, the not-so-humble bard questions “So you _do_ intend to cook the fish, right?” from his seat upon a log as he tunes his lute.

Growling, Geralt points out “I caught it.”

“Yes and as everyone knows, he who catches must also cook for they best know the spirit of the fish and what it needs to be most delicious.”

Geralt, taking a swig of something harsh, he grumbles “Remind me. Which is your mouth and which is your ass?” only Jaskier, plucking gingerly at a string, he shrugs out “Oh, hardy harrr, Geralt” and tunes the next.

The Witcher, he growls “Because you’re talking out of your ass.”

“Yes, I understood the point. I _do_ understand nuance, something you may be unfamiliar with.”

“Hm.”

“Oh ho, you’ve convinced me, how your grunts are a poetry all their own,” the bard smirks.

“Shut up and cook.”

“Ahaha, soon, soon. Just give me a…” and strumming, composing, he hums “From another world, the Wild Hunt travelled, to come for his daughter, her magic they…they? Theyyy.”

“Jaskier…”

“Geralt, it’s needs to be a song. I just need to find the right tune…”

Geralt, impaling the carp and showing over the fire, he growls low as his stomach does in kind. Ignoring that particular duet, Jaskier continues to try. With an haunting melody, plucking highs and lows simultaneously, the Bard does close his eyes as he hums “…Of another world, they came in foggy night, hunting a daughter, to claim what isn’t right. They were the Wild Hunt, the monsters of legend, here-er to conquer, plunge us into damnation...”

“Last part doesn’t rhyme,” the Witcher notes but Jaskier pauses to say “First draft and it’s a slant rhyme.”

Taking a breath, beginning his strumming once more, he continues on to sing “Oh this isn’t an epic but a requiem oh a requiem. A requiem…”

The fire crackles and embers rise as the burning logs tips over.

“…They call her Zireael, Child of Dest-eh-nee. Lion cub of Cintra, the girl of prophecy…”

“The Gorgeous Garroter, they came for his daughter, Wraiths born of chaos, they wanted her power…”

In the pause, the creek lazily laps at its shoreline…

“…In our hour of need, she rose to the calling, sealing our world, from the white frost a’coming. Stopped the killer of worlds, our savior did prevail but not before the Frost… claimed her as well. This was never an epic but a requiem ohhh a requiem ohhhh a requiem! This was never an epic….”

“Only that’s not what happened.”

“I know,” Jaskier smiles almost sadly, “but _they_ won’t. And yes, I know it needs a lot of work but like I said, it’s a first draft.”

“Hm. Thanks,” Geralt sighs and brushes a stray strand of white hair back past his ears.

“You’re my best friend. You really think I wouldn’t help her?,” the bard questions as he stands his lute against a tree.

“Try only friend. Name another. I’ll wait,” Geralt cracks but Jaskier spins it back, joking “Please, Geralt, we both know this projection you insist upon is but a poor cover, an attempt at masking the simple fact that you are the one to have so few…”

“Okay. You can shut up now.”

Sniffing the air, the bard hungrily announces “And you can take our dinner off the flame. Smells just about…well duhhh-nope that’s over. Way over. Take it off Geralt!”

“Geralt!”

“Geralt.”

“Hm.”

“Geralt,” the shifts and it’s Minaeve shaking him awake. Groggy, an inked note dried to his cheek, he sits back, reorienting. “Lady Montilyet is…” the Elven researcher redirects his attention and sure enough, the poppy bright woman is standing in the doorway.

“Oh, Ser Witcher, I do apologize for disturbing your,” Josephine begins but pauses and brushes at her own face. Catching her drift, he snatches the likely distracting parchment paper from his cheek and with a smile, she continues “As I was saying, if you would join me in my office, I would like to have a conversation over tea.”

Rolling his neck while Minaeve just goes about tidying up her workspace to look busy, Geralt just looks at the diplomat.

“Perhaps something stronger,” she reconsiders and offer her hand as is customary for a socialite wanting an escort. Geralt forces down a tired groan — he can walk the pretty woman back to her office for a chat. He can do that much. And so, folding his arm, she slips her tan hand through the crook and the two do walk, making way to the stairs and back to the annoyances of the world above. As the enter Chantry hall, Geralt can’t help but overhear someone talking down to Idrilla in a darkened grotto some few feet away…

“…doesn’t have enough Templars to handle incidents. Some of the rank and file _need_ to be trained. You _were_ after all the one who sought fit to let the mages run rampant here,” a gorgeous, dark skinned human sorceress implores, “though I must say arresting Fiona was a good first step.”

“So yer sayin’ whit exactly? Secret police em? Not exactly whit I’m fightin’ fer here. Thought you knew tha’,” Idrilla grumbles and folds her arms.

“If you won’t, I’ll have to have a word with Cullen,” the human sorceress presses again, “We _are_ reliant on his people absolutely.” Her honeyed words turn sour though as she scowls out “There has never been a greater threat to mages than the Breach and until it’s closed, no one is safe” and it’s perhaps by coincidence Geralt can feel her eyes fall upon him as she adds “Just one weak link, one abomination, and you’ll have killed everyone here.”

Idrilla, all to obvious about her eye roll, she protests “Ma clan didn’t have any templars. I turned alright.”

“Yes. _You_ did. But how many will you take under your oh so benevolent wing and teach the ways of the Dalish? As I understand, you only allow two mages in clan.”

“Depends on th’ clan,” Idrilla challenges, sounding ready to abruptly finish her conversation, “We learn early on th’ importance o’ saying no. No ta demons. It’s a core le…” but passing through into the ambassadorial office — and with Josephine closing the door behind them — he loses the conversation between the Herald and that sorceress in white. Taking a seat at the desk in a proffered modest wooden chair, Geralt grunts “So here we are.”

“Yes, thank you so much. I know your time is important but I would truly appreciate your input on a certain matter,” Josephine explains while pouring coffee from a second teapot. Not the sort of stronger drink he was hoping for but he accepts regardless as she hands him the ornate teacup and saucer. While he sips the scalding beverage, not really giving a shit about burnt tastebuds, Lady Josephine continues on to say “I know it may be a bit premature, but in light of the imminent attempt to close the Breach, I thought it best to arrange for a celebration.”

“Hm.”

“Exactly! You get it! Well, I’ve asked around regarding The Herald and what she likes but I’ve hit a wall on the matter,” she explains while dropping a sugar cube to her own cup and allowing for it to cool, “You are the only person left that has spent significant time with her. Please tell me you know something!”

Geralt, his reply is only to squint, pinching his lips together at the edge of his cup as he does so.

“Surely there must be something the two of you have discussed. Favorite foods? Desserts? Preferred libations? What type of music does she most enjoy? Does she miss her home? I admit, I don’t know very much about the Dalish…”

He shrugs and takes a sip.

“Truly? You know nothing either? How is it that you all don’t talk while traveling? How do you normally get to know people?”

Making a noted effort of glancing behind himself to make sure she’s not addressing someone else in the room — she’s clearly not — Geralt grunts “Mmm, I’m the wrong person to ask about that.”

“Do you people not talk?”

“No?”

“Where’s the camaraderie? The sense of kinship?”

“You read too many poems,” Geralt hums into his coffee.

“Ughhh! Oh, but what to do? How do I plan for someone I know next to nothing about? I suppose I could ask Leliana… she _does_ have a frightening amount of information on most everyone although…”

Done, carefully placing his cup and saucer on her work desk, Geralt sighs “My professional assessment? She’s not big on group activities. She’s a loner. Have your celebration but don’t focus it on her. Let the pieces fall naturally.”

“Oh, that couldn’t possibly be the...” Lady Josephine dismisses but slowly reconsiders, “…Is that true? She doesn’t feel comfortable around us?” With a gasp, a flare of anger flashing across her usually gentle face, she questions “Did someone call her a knife ear again?” while gripping the edge of her desk.

Shrugging, leaning forward in his seat, Geralt merely answers “Don’t know.”

“She _has_ been standoffish as of late, referring to most humans as _shems_.”

“Think that’s just her,” he sighs and moves to leave, retreating toward the door, “Wouldn’t take it personally…so if that’s all you need, I’ve got a camp full of the magically inclined to take a walk through.”

She nods but with her well manicured eyebrows knitting together. Disconcerted. This conversation did little to grant the diplomat any relief. Closing the door and leaving her to her thoughts, Geralt can’t help but roll his eyes.

_A celebration? Now? That’s asking for calamity…_

**______**

  
  


Too many people in robes. Too many rows of improvised tents. It’s all just too much.

Going on a half hour now, walking through the innumerable mages all milling about anxiously, Geralt calls out “Triss! TRISS! Damn it, where are you!?”

Lot of head turns.

Lot of fearful stares or quick turn aways.

Not a damn sign of the lost redhead but then a squeaky voiced man with a shock of black hair answers “Hi, yes? I’m Triss!

“No. You’re not,” Geralt groans and buries his face in his callused hand.

“Triss for short, Tristan P. Hudgins for lo…” the young man continues but Geralt cuts him off with a loud “NO” of a growl and goes storming off.

In time, another mage sees fit to answer his call — this one a woman at least — but the blonde comments “Uhh, only my friends call me Triss…”

“Are we friends?,” he growls rhetorically and she reticently answers “uhhh noooooo?”

“Then you’re not Triss” he states the obvious and shoves onward, looking this way and that, pushing through the ever growing crowd of mages.

“Redhead. This tall. Answers to Triss?,” he ask some but their answers were unhelpful or stupid to say the least, ranging from “I knew a red head back in my home village!” to “You mean that Tristan guy?”

No luck. No Triss. Geralt leaves the mage camp no more informed than before and walking around the frozen shoreline, winding his way back toward Haven, he notices Seeker Cassandra hacking away at training dummies, trying her best to ignore the slew of irritations standing some few feet away, all bleating their questions and concerns at her…

“Who do we talk to about improving our comfort level??”

She doesn’t answer, and instead takes another swing at the dummy.

“Oh, excuse me! The meals here simply won’t do! I have a delicate constitution and my dietary restrictions demand I…” one mage annoys, breaking the last straw of the Seeker’s resolve.

With a furious swing, lopping off the dummy’s head, she tosses her training sword to the ground and her hands become fists. Leather crunching in her tight grip, she slowly turns on the three and doing her utmost to keep from throttling them, she seethes “Shut. Up. I am not your keeper. This isn’t the Circle. Just _deal_ with it.”

“But we..”

“Kindly refer to my previous point,” she strongly advises and indignant, near to tantrum, the few go stomping off at not having been served. Choosing then to approach, casually tossing and catching the dummy head, Geralt grunts “Mages and their many requirements.”

“It never ends,” she groans, reclaiming her sword to have a go at the following dummy.

“Mhm,” he growls but dropping the head, he fishes out a half full flask and shakes it in offering.

“As old as you claim to be, I suppose you _would_ know, wouldn’t you?,” Cassandra mutters and takes his drink, uncapping it and sniffing, “This isn’t that rotgut that Varric is always…”

“No. And I don’t know brand or year but it tastes fine enough.”

Wincing and tilting her head to side — not her drink of choice, good to know — she sighs and cracks her neck, returning the drink. Lining up her next attack, however, she pauses and asks “I need a distraction.”

“Hm?,” Geralt pauses, not sure he heard correctly but knowing well what he’s assuming, Cassandra corrects “Ugh, no, not that. Obviously. I mean to fight you again.” She said that just a touch quickly. Her ears are getting pink. Could be the cold though.

Though snorting once in amusement at what he thinks he’s noticed, he shrugs and nods as an indication to follow.

She grabs an extra sword...

He’ll fight. And why not? He walks, guiding her toward that cabin he awoke in nearly a week ago. Had a clearing outside it. Should be a good spot away from the rabble and fools…


	15. Chapter 15

Blunted training swords locked though not actively trying to kill each other, Cassandra and Geralt both try to shove the other back though the snow-strewn ground offers little in the way of footing. Really, it’s proving to be a stalemate — just an hour of beating steel on steel, no need to draw blood.

A twig snaps and some birds scatter from the brush.

“Yield already!,” Cassandra demands of him but he growls back a simple “No.” She clearly has some energy to spend and frustrations yet to take out on him.

“Awww,” that choppy haired elf girl Sera suddenly whines from atop a sizable boulder, overlooking the two of them as they practice like she’s a bird on its perch, “Was sure you two’d be having fun out here. The rolling around kind. U no? Naked?”

Disengaging and punching Geralt in the arm, Cassandra slings her practice sword at the elf girl but yelping “Oi!,” Sera narrowly avoids the hasty attack, just barely scooting our of the way.

“Pbbbt,” Sera blows a raspberry, “Ur mean and Harold Shinyhand is looking for u.”

“Oh... then she means to get it over with,” Cassandra recognizes with a huff.

“Have fun,” Geralt mirthlessly comments, a man with zero desire to go anywhere.

“You aren’t coming?”

“Pfft, why would Whitey want to?,” Sera speaks almost alliteratively on the Witcher’s behalf, “To go huddle up under that giant pucker with half the robes in Thedas? No way. This one’ll be drinking with the Charger’s or Varric and losing his breeches to bad hands.”

“What?,” the Seeker and Witcher both try to process and Sera shoots back “What? _People_ people talk.”

With a scoff and eye roll, Cassandra relents — it’s pointless to argue with these two and their answers would only be more useless — and so she walks off, leaving Geralt and Sera behind. There’s a Breach to seal and postponing that is of no benefit to anyone but the Divine’s killer…

“Wait, where u off to? Drinks are the other way, yeah?,” Sera aims to redirect the Witcher as he walks towards his squatter cabin, “That LadyJosephine is all about proper feasts & such — they’re gonna set it up as soon as Harold heads off.”

“You sound like you want me around,” he growls while opening the door, not even giving her a backwards glance as she rambles “Pfft, as if. It’s only cuz u can’t hold your liquor…hehehe, lick her… whatever. Just wanted to see a fight. U fight when ur drunk.”

Him shutting the door behind him should be clear enough his answer to that.

Unbuckling his armor and carefully setting each item out on the desk, he undoes the top of his shirt and pulls off his boots — getting comfortable — before taking a seat at the water damaged desk and emptying out a pouch of personal goods. Leather soap and blade oils, a whetstone and bundled herbs, Geralt sighs to himself in the empty homestead as he begins the upkeep of his armor and blades…

Alone, the Witcher works well into the evening.

Crushing herbs and squeezing what little liquid he can from their leaves and stems onto a small silver dish…

Honing his blades, the whetstone grinding away the rough nicks and edges…

Tamping powders and adding tiny ball bearings, working away at making something resembling a grapeshot grenade…

It’s hours still after dusk that the air changes, charges, the scent of an encroaching storm fast approaching. With his wolf medallion rattling off his chest, he rises from his creaky chair, cracks his back, and the old man exits his cabin to look to the skies over the Frostback Mountains to the South. It’s all so ordinary until a thin beam of green abruptly surges to the heavens and connects with that nauseating hole and with a flash of light, thunder cracks and lightning dances about the Breach, its gaping mouth creeping shut. The forest groans as a blast of air sweeps the land, the world’s booming sigh of relief, and all the snow that was on the rooftop, it knocks loose, quickly finding Geralt’s head and shoulders. To think, he was on the verge of cracking a smile but now, no words, he just grunts low and stomps back inside.

Shaking off like a dog, intending to get back to work, he can’t help but notice the sounds of cheer and song, the chorus of Haven’s people reveling at Idrilla’s latest feat.

Twice, he picks up his tools and twice more he sets them back down. Can’t focus with all the damn singing. It’s as he’s about to try a third time that he outright sighs “Fuck it” and shoves back, leaving his work unfinished. Grabbing his ratty cloak, a single belt knife, and his coin, he leaves to join in on the celebrating, muttering “Might as well...”

**______**

It’s been a solid day of drinking…

An arm wrestling contest against a Templar…

Losing at darts to Sera even though she was ogling a barmaid the entire game…

A literal pissing match against several of the Chargers, men and women both…

Ignoring — yet again — the inquiries for story fodder from that bard.

… even now, people still dance about the fires, others blacked in the streets with chantry women dragging them to the sides lest they get stepped on. The celebration rages on even with sunset fast approaching. And why not? The Inquisition has competed its primary task of sealing the demon belching Breach in the sky.

This? This is deserved.

“Find me still searching. For someone to lead me… Can you guide me to the revolt inside me,” that Maryden bard sings while plucking away, her hat on the floor filled with coin, “Promise. Surviving. The Breach…”

Hunched over the bar amongst several other patrons clamoring for drink, Geralt sighs into his umpteenth cup, hoping to order one more but that Flissa woman, she’s shaking her head, yelling “No, last call. We’re just about dry” to the dismay and distress of many.

“Templar. Igniting. Fire inside me,” the bard continues as Geralt growls out “Three gold to the first person who gets me a drink!” and Flissa immediately cancels the order of another for the Witcher’s offer.

“Maker. Remind me. Gone are the days of our peace…” Maryden continues albeit a bit more somberly, “Now we reside… In the great divide…”

Three gold given, one tall cup of strong ale received, but some of the last few precious ounces in stock. Taking both cups, his brandy and his fresh beer, he stumbles through the remaining crowd as the bard sings “No promise. Surviving. The Breach. In the Sky” before swooping down upon her earnings. Outside and wobbling down the dirt path outside the tavern, double vision hindering his steps, Geralt ambles over to a small campfire and plops down on the log beside him. Others sit about the flames — dimly lit elves, dwarves, and humans alike in the flickering orange glow — however all but one have slipped into varying states of unconsciousness, passed out on the cold ground or wavering upright, close to tipping with every slight breeze.

“You know” slurs the remaining dwarf awake at this little fire, “I’m a bit..mmm..jealush of you gedding all the eeezeee mishunsz.” Varric, drunkenly looking to the Witcher with half lidded eyes, he chuckles “I had to wade through a marshhh. Look at me. Whud part of dwarf and marsh make any damn sense. Don’t don’t get me wrong… Madam de Fer’s icy demeanor of sh..superiority and her capashity of killing undead was oh so mmm…comforting.”

“Hm,” Geralt grunts with drinks in both hands, “I vaguely recall being trapped in an… unending hell of torture. There’s no winning.”

“Hehehe, you talking about my trip or yours?,” the stout man chuckles and leans in close with whisky strong on his breath, “Liddle known secret? Lady Vivienne is…well…mean is an apt term for…it. Ahh, but time travel.. yeah, way people have been…been talking, makes me glad dwarves don’t dream.”

“Dwarves. Don’t. Dream?,” Geralt staggers his question unintentionally. Really, he’s just too aware of his own tongue right now and it’s an uncomfortable experience. Before Varric can answer, the Herald Idrilla herself comes padding over on bare feet, unbundled and unfazed by the snow as she takes a seat. “Ah jush the elf I wanted to see” Varric greets but trips over a word or two in his rather inebriated state while Geralt mumbles “You aren’t drinking?”

“Too tired ta drink,” she says and gives her neck a roll, popping for the endorphin high, “Too awake ta sleep. Really, I’m just straddling th’ fine line between th’ two.”

“If drinking maksh you tired, you’re not doing it right,” Varric tries to argue but isn’t proving any points this evening, “Isha-Isabela was always most productive when she had a liddle in her…Wait, heh heh ah damnit. If you knew her, you would’ve laughed ad” but the pleasant evening is shattered by the blaring of war horns, the clanging of chantry bells, and the poor elf’s mark flares, crackling with green energy…

In the far off distance, hundreds of torches dot the darkened mountain pass, bobbing ever closer.

People scattering and hurrying about, others jolting awake from their drunken stupors, soldiers hasten to the main gates from the Chantry. The three rising from their little triangle, Varric takes a second to utter “ooo…we’ve had a lot of setbacks but uh….this is the most recent” and pours out the remainder of his beer, “Gotta get Bianca,” before he hustles off.

“Whit th’ fuck?,” Idrilla winces, clutching at her palm but with no time to process or talk it out and still very drunk, Geralt immediately takes off in a dead sprint, barreling through people and slipping through the gates just before they shut — sliding on the ice and snow, scrambling, he rushes for his cabin and shoulder checks the door open rather than fumble for the clasp. In his haste to armor up, he knocks the unfinished grenade and decoction off the table edge, spilling the contents of both, and all he can do is curse “FUCK!” while slinging his sword sheathes over his shoulders, his thick fingers struggling to fasten them before he goes racing clumsily out the door again.

Missiles scream, flaming arrows flying through the inky black sky.

Hauling ass through rows of soldier tents — all abandoned to hold the line — running to the stables, Geralt swiftly untethers the horses and shouting “HYAH!,” he slaps their haunches and sends them thundering off and around Haven, toward the Northbound pass.

Better safe running than sticking it out here.

Snow crunches but Geralt drunkenly spins only to see no one. Relying on his sense of smell and hearing over that of his impaired vision, he hears the soft scrape of leather and smells something wrong. Bad blood. Not taking any chances, Geralt slashes the air over the empty footprints and a person screams, visible now and bleeding as shadows fall off them, wound blistering from the rashvine oil application. Dark veining around their eyes, gasping in an apparent allergic reaction as the oil flows throughout their bloodstream, this sneak chokes on their own tongue, leaving Geralt to only spit “Damn you’re ugly.”

...but more footprints distress the snow…

Breathing through the drunkenness, on an exhale of alcohol fumes, he darts forward like a praying mantis and catches the second enemy between his blades with a nasty shunk. Pivoting into a slash, he brings one sword back behind him just in time to block an attack as he slays the third. Trying to leap back into their shadow state, the fourth retreats but Geralt’s not having that, growling “Get back here” as he rapid casts Aard from the hip. Their feet knocked out from under them from the energetic gust, the fourth goes tumbling into the snow, falling from cover only to have two longswords sweep their head from their shoulders, spraying the brush and white covered ground with red.

The air reeks of metal — Geralt pauses to stifle a gag. “Really shouldn’t have mixed so many drinks...ugh.”

Shoving his silver sword back in place, wielding only his steel, he runs for the main gates in the hopes they’ll open again. As trebuchets groan and rock, hurling their flaming payloads, Geralt happens upon an advance team of templars that slipped past the war engines and defending soldiers...

…but they’re getting their throats cut by something imperceptible…

…his medallion vibrating, it only slows when a pale lad in a floppy hat phases into view, shouting at the gates “ _We_ can’t come in unless you open!” but looking to the Witcher all the while. No time to question, Geralt smashes a fist against the gates, barking “Do it!”

The gates part and Idrilla is the first face he sees. “You?,” she asks while eying the bloody mess of dead Templars but storming past her into the relative safety of Haven, he’s quick to address “No. It was the kid.”

“Who?,” her and a few others ask back, confused for only a moment before shrugging it off as the Witcher being weird. But hiding behind Geralt, the pale kid utters “I’m Cole. I came to warn you. To help. People are coming to hurt you. You probably already know…” while peeking out at the Herald, shying from the light in her hand.

”Templars,” Geralt states and Cullen gawks out “For aligning with the mages? They would march on us?”

Idrilla, she seems to mouth the very words the kid just said before shaking her head and yelling “...they’re no friends of ours. We need ta get out there and protect th’ siege stuff!” to which Cullen answers “BY YOUR ORDER” and many draw their weapons. Surging out into the night, the Herald and Cullen leading the charge, scores of soldiers follow in their wake roaring their battle cries.

“I uhhhh….”

“She was too bright,” he whispers, still hiding behind the Witcher, “But I _can_ help.”

“Hm.”

“Yes. You’re right. We need to protect the townspeople,” he agrees with Geralt’s unspoken thought and flickers from view, vanishing to hopefully protect as he said.

“Ughhhh,”the Witcher grunts, not ready to deal with potential ghosts in the midst of all this — ducking behind a tree, another barrage of arrows cut the sky, stinging the rooftops and killing dead some unlucky few still hurrying for cover or trying to drag too many personal items to safety. Fire is spreading, the haze of war burning the eyes, but even drunk and disoriented, he hears the screams of people running…

…and the clanging of metal on wood, Templars jumping over the walls…

Gripping tight the steel in hand, he storms forward with brutal determination.

War horns sound again…

He leaps to action, butchering the first he comes across, hacking limbs off in one fluid sweep and painting the snow. Two charge him, but falling into the steps of his death dance, he ducks, spins between the two, grabs one from behind and slashes the other. Choking up, twisting to use the man as protection, jagged shards of red lyrium fire from the shadows, chewing up the front of his “shield.” Shoving the now-corpse to the brush, a veritable monster of a man comes dashing out into the moonlight — red crystal growths jutting from his wrists, remnants of fingers and hand skin ruined and stretched about the lyrium spikes, this creature screeches at Geralt with bleeding gums and launches to attack.

“Yrden.”

Locked, the sign holding the creature aloft, Geralt rushes hard and swings harder, lopping the Templar in half with several uneven hacks.

The faint purple glow dims and the corrupted corpse drops, intestines and gore pouring out across the dirt.

“H-help! Please! Somebody!,” he hears a woman shriek from within billowing smoke and racing inside, shielding his eyes from the roaring flames on booze sodden planks, he finds Flissa trapped beneath a rafter beam, not another soul in sight — gripping tight to a the smoldering timber, lifting the mighty beam with all his strength, he frees the barmaid up just enough for her to squirm free and the moment she’s clear, the roof caves in.

Quen.

Escaping the burning skeleton of the tavern, getting free of the debris, she tries to cough out in thanks but he shoves her along, sending her racing for the church. Two more comes staggering along, injured but alive — Minaeve and Adan — and they too follow along behind Flissa for sanctuary.

And then the medallion quivers…

“More are coming. Angry and red,” the pale boy Cole utters from his side, peering up at his past the brim when suddenly he goes more distant, staring through the Witcher as he says “Ours was a sacred task. They turned us aside. What other choice do we have?”

“What?”

“The Templ...,” he starts to answer when a terrible screech warbles through the night and the beating massive leather wings echoes off the Frostbacks. “Dying but forgot how to, tied by a thin string to another…No,” Cole panics and spins to the battlefield, just as alizarin energy strikes like lightning, blinding in its malevolence.

...A dragon, big and black, a ghastly sight to behold...

Fumbling with his sword, winded, Geralt steps forward but ghost boy stops him, pleading “Protect them. They need you. You’re good at being in between. Someone else needs me” before phasing out of existence. Stunned, daunted by how bad this night has gotten, the Witcher comes to understand what Cole meant, what’s at stake, and where he really _should_ be.

There’s monsters.

There’s people.

“And a Witcher’s place is between the two,” he sighs to himself, reminding himself of that crucial aspect, the only code he’s ever known. And he does just that, marching to plant himself dead center in front of the chantry steps, trusting the soldiers and Inquisition heads to deal with the horrors beyond the gates, relaxing as best he can for when the time comes to react…

Stragglers run by, hurrying inside…

He sighs out a weary exhale and rolls his neck…

Battle calm settles…

“Now.”

With a quick twist and arc of his steel, his blade clipping arrows and red rock shards, deflecting the volley and returning some back to sender. Vitals struck by chance, one enemy drops dead and a few stagger out from cover, holding tight to impact wounds, but more still emerge unscathed and in increasing number. The dance begins, the Witcher sidestepping another bolt, inviting the sickened and monstrous to come closer. Wide open, arms at his sides, he twists his Kaer Morhen longsword, leather gloves crunching as he tightens his grip and they take the bait. They rush as a mob and despite their strength, resilience, they’re sloppy, owned by their rage and Geralt —even in the state he is — slips by them, winding through their number, gutting, punching, neck snapping, and hacking with such fervor his steel shatters many of their lesser iron blades with a sharp crack like breaking glass..

He moves to take another down, his sword lodged in the cut muscles and damaged spine when he’s suddenly gets kick back as if from from a siege ballista — Geralt’s launched back mid-slash, toppling through hastily fashioned fencing, his sword still stuck in an enemy — the culprit, the big one, the dark captain of this Templar unit, more crystal than flesh beneath his armor, its fists like a pallet of bricks. With deep metallic intonation, the Templar Captain cackles out “ **A higher power guides us. You have nothing** ” and its underlings rush in again…

…The air changes, gets denser, when suddenly that incoming group of Templars become a pink mist, limbs and chunks scattering like projectile vomit. Hurrying out to the Chantry steps, that mage Dorian quips “What? No silver dust for me to breathe today, none of your usual flare? Fine then, I suppose I’ll have to. Make. Do” and twisting his staff, tensing up in focus, he mutters something under his breath in a foreign tongue when a spark ignites and he performs his encore. Yet another few of these rogue Templars become smoking splashes of former humans, blasted apart as their captain roars its hate at the well-to-do mage and draws forth its broadsword to strike down the pest.

But his back is to Geralt, the undeniably quicker of the two — darting in with his belt knife in hand, he leaps and drives the pointed tip deep into the Templar neck, splitting vertebra in a way that even this monster can’t possibly recoup from. Leaving the dagger in so no healing may occur as he goes to retrieve his long sword, the Templar Captain can only gurgle as it collapses, paralyzed from the neck down…

Dragon wings pound the darkness as it comes about for another pass, it’s terrible call cutting the night and stunning the senses…

Another wave of Templars roar, funneling into Haven…

“GERALT!,” Idrilla shouts from behind him, at the Chantry doors with Blackwall and Iron Bull hauling the oaken double doors shut. When they got there is beyond him, lost in the moment, but hurrying, yanking his blood slicked blade from the dying, he bolts through the doors just before they’re all sealed in…

Packed in, no where else to go, the many people of Haven tremble and whine with every quake of the building, small bits dust raining down from the rafters above…

“No one said they had a fucking archdemon!,” Bull curses their luck and panting, visibly paled, Blackwall utters a quiet “Maker… That _was_ a… an…”

“An Archdemon!,” Cassandra spits, “But it cannot be! There have been no signs of a Blight.”

“Our position isn’t good,” Cullen states, “That dragon stole back any time we may have earned” but from on his knees besides a bleeding chancellor of the faith, the pale boy Cole whispers “I’ve seen an Archdemon. I was in the Fade, but it looked like that.”

“What?,” Cullen complains, “I don’t give a damn what it looks like! It cut a path for that army and they’ll kill everyone in Haven!” and those pedestrians within earshot sob.

“The Elder One doesn’t care about the village,” Cole continues, shying from the Herald and her mark, “He only wants The Herald.”

“Of fucking course,” she grumbles into her glowing palm as Templar fists beat upon the chantry doors, “Why wouldn’t it be me?”

“I don’t know,” Cole answers vaguely, “He’s too loud. It hurts to hear him. He wants to kill you. No one else matters, but he’ll crush them, kill them anyway. I don’t like him.”

“You don’t like? Uhh, Herald, there are no tactics to make this survivable,” Cullen groans, unwilling to deal with any more of this boy’s nonsense, “The only thing that slowed them was the avalanche. We _could_ turn the remaining trebuchets, cause one last slide.”

To that, Idrilla has no words. She just scrunches her face up, squinting at the former Templar in the hopes that accurately conveys her thoughts on his plan of murder-suicide.

Not taking kindly to the challenge, he defends his course, explaining “We’d bury Haven, yes, but we’re already dying… we can at least decide how. Many don’t get that choice.”

“Yes,” Cole breathes, “That. Chancellor Roderick can help. He wants to say it before he dies,” while supporting the bloodied man, his white frock soggy with his own life blood. “There’s a..a path,” the chantry official weakly claims, barely able to lift a finger to point, “You wouldn’t know it unless…unless you’d made th-the summer pilgrimage as I have… The people can escape. _She_ must have sho-shown me. Andraste must have shown me so I could…could… tell you” and his old eyes settle on the Herald. “It was whim that I walked the path. So overgrown… but now, with so many in the Conclave dead, to be the only one who remembers… I don’t know, Herald. If this… simple memory can save us, this could be more than mere accident. _You_ could be more.”

“Bull, take him an’ show th’ others out,” Idrilla asks of the horned giant and not willing to argue, not right now, he hefts the broken chancellor off his feet and carries him damsel-in-distress style into the crowd. Cullen, he waves his hand toward the back and shouts “Everyone, we’re moving out” but notices The Herald isn’t budging. “Herald?” he questions of the distant looking elf and she looks back toward the doors, Templars still pounding away from without.

“Gotta make sure they can’t follow,” she utters. 

“Herald? What are you…?”

“Not Herald. It’s Idrilla Lavellan. Learn it. Commit it to memory,” she says with a harder edge to her tone, “Gonna do tha’ terrible trebu-shit plan of yours” but Geralt interjects with reason “Or we get high enough, have the mages group cast, and blow the mountain down on top of the enemy.”

“They… can’t,” he counters, “Our lyrium stores are exhausted and the allied mages used what little mana they had to help close the Breach.”

“Then it’s back ta shit plan A,” Idrilla groans, seeming dead set on carrying out this suicide mission.

“I…wait?,” Cullen goes to protest but Geralt plants a hand on the commander’s shoulder, pushing him toward the many leaving, growling low “Go. She’ll follow you shortly.” Cullen’s eyes flick between the elf and the closer Witcher, uncertain but pressed for time. With a grimace, the man whips about and storms off to join the others, barking “INQUISITION! WE FOLLOW THE CHANCELLOR!”

As the rooms clears out, Idrilla questions “Whit are you doing? Yer not goin’ with me” of Geralt and he answers “Not with. Try _instead of._ ”

“Huh?”

“Someone has to _make sure they can’t follow_ ,” he says, parroting her own words, “Now move. Go join your pack of fools. Run.”

The free pass is offered and surprisingly taken, the marked elf taking but a moment’s pause before turning to join the remainder of the Inquisition out the back of the church and up the alleged secret path.

No thanks or praise, she’s just gone.

Smart.

Letting out a sigh, knowing full well how stupid a plan this is, Geralt utters “What am I doing?” as he steps closer to the barred double doors, the Templars without unceasingly beating and clawing at the thick wooden entry in their ravenous thirst for Inquisition blood.

Readying to kick the bar free, to start his assault, he begins to draw Aard but a rush of warmth floods him and his fingers stall.

“Oh fuck,” he huffs, dropping to a knee, “The shit did I drink?”

...but it isn’t nausea, no churning of guts and gifting of migraines. Instead, it’s all so pleasant like being bundled beneath furs beside the hearth on a brisk winter night. “Geraaaaaalt,” melodically whispers in his ear, a sense of peace settling over him like the calm after a spring shower. Intoxicating, the smell of wet lilacs heavy in his nose, the world shifts and down he goes, dropping his sword as he falls into clouds of utter contentment…


	16. Chapter 16

A midsummer breeze sighs through the open window of Corvo Bianco, the scent of wine grapes from the orchards carried along past wafting curtains. Seldom is the weather in Toussaint ever less than an absolute pleasure, even the rain storms are a gift. Lying in bed beneath linens, his arm Yennefer’s headrest, Geralt breathes easy, restfully. Post coital bliss. Yen’s lazily tracing her fingers across his scarred abdomen with her painted nails when she softly questions “So, Geralt, where will you be off to next?”

“Hm?,” Geralt hums in question, not quite willing to think or move. She often has that effect on him, putting him as ease.

“That’s all I get?,” she teases and he grins out a “hmmmm,” cracking one eye open to admire the raven-haired beauty. Rolling over to look upon his pale face with her purple eyes, she sighs “If you deign not to speak with actual words, perhaps you could do us both a favor and pour me a drink.”

Removing himself and careful not to pull her hair, he pads on over to a serving tray by the door, left there some hours ago by Barnabas before he retired to his own quarters for the evening. Though Geralt reaches for the white wine, a sweeter blend, Yen clears her throat, correcting “Water, Geralt, obviously. I shouted myself hoarse.”

“Hmm,” Geralt smiles in recollection while pouring her a glass of room temperature water — if she wants it chilled, she’ll see to it herself. Only, as he hands it off, he could swear he smells smoke…

 _‘No need for a fire with this weather,’_ he thinks to himself while looking to the darkened hearth and then to the open window.

“Geralt?”

He remains quiet, stuck in thought, realizing something’s amiss…

“Oh,” Yennefer realizes, “I suppose _this_ would be the part wherein I say ‘you don’t have to go’ but we both know you will.”

“Hm?”

“As I said, you don’t _have_ to go,” Yen expresses from bed, half exposed, her perfect breasts just almost free of the cotton sheets, “but it’s in our best interest for you to do so.”

“Wait. Something’s off.”

“Go, Geralt, find your way back to me,” she tells him in that stern way she’s all too prone to. The edges of the cabin blur and she traipses over to stand before him, sheets falling away, lovingly demanding “Come back to me” and she shoves him backwards through the tapestry of reality, tearing through the scene as if it were cobwebs, and plummeting in the darkness of unconscious thought…

He huffs.

He blinks.

Whatever dream that may have been, it was clearly a lie. Face down on cold stone, drool between his cheek and floor, Geralt groans as he picks himself up from the daze to the crackling of fire and smoke. That was not a fireplace, no gentle warmth of some hearth…

 _‘How long was I out??_ ,’ he puzzles while taking up his sword again, looking about in suspicion with yellow eyes wide and teeth bared lest something strike, ‘ _How am I alive?_ ’ The splintered remains of door have scorched into their grain the remnants of a powerful glyph, still flickering with mana. From the Templar corpses blown outward from the chantry, it’s a safe bet to say it was an explosive one. Careful, cautious, Geralt wanders outside, on edge but opts to follow the path of twisted and smoldering corpses, what once may have been human faces burning beneath their iron visors, gridded metal blackening by the licking flames.

These were not natural deaths.

Blood’s still pooling, some bodies still steaming in the cold of night.

_‘Fresh. Dead less than half an hour.’_

“... **gathered the will to return under no name but my own, to champion withered Tevinter and correct this blighted world** ,” someone booms, their voice setting teeth on edge and again that dragon screeches its ear piercing call, the damnable cry reverberating harshly off the surrounds slopes and mountains. “ **Beg that I succeed, for I have seen the throne of the Gods and. It. Was. Empty!** ”

“Shit,” Geralt curses. Whoever, whatever, that was, he has to hurry, but first, rushing into the torn up Spymaster’s tent, hastily ransacking what remains, what was forgotten, he recovers his original satchel, stolen in the investigation, and goes running off, the broken corpses the bread crumbs leading the way to his target…

“ **The Anchor is permanent. You have spoiled it with your stumbling**.”

Even racing, Geralt can’t help but notice how all the Templars look to have killed themselves, daggers gripped tightly and driven into their own throats. Such thoughts are cut short though by the booming of “ **So be it. I will begin again, find a way to give this world the nation — _and God —_ it requires**” just ahead.

A living corpse of a dragon stands on all fours, crackling energies almost dripping from its gruesome maw.

A humanoid monster, shards of red and metal twisted and fused with its towering skeletal frame.

Idrilla gasps for air, wincing in pain and held high by the monster with blood smeared across her forehead..

“ **And you. I will not suffer even an unknowing rival. You _must…_** ” the thing threatens, pulling her in closer.

“Fuck off,” Geralt can’t help but growl in disgust while pulling free a random grenade and launching it at the dragon’s face with breakneck speed. No time to run. No time to cast. If Idrilla wasn’t here, Geralt could’ve made a plan, done this carefully. Instead, he’s dealing with what amounts to a hostage situation. Surprise. Divide. Conquer. The device explodes on impact and spitting in the eyes of Fate, it happens to be the best of the worst — a swirling cloud of shimmering metallic purples and blues releases, hitting everything capable of using magic as if drawn to them.

Violently choking and retching, the mages reel and even the dragon can’t spit its deadly flames, hacking and roaring, blinded by the effects

Agonizing and reeling, no one can cast; fine shavings fill all their lungs and eyes.

Drained, suffocating on the metal as her eyes pour tears, as she’s dropped to the ground, Idrilla at least has the wherewithal to hurry and kick loose the trebuchet pin — the payload goes soaring, completing the task she shouldn’t even have been here for.

It all happens so quickly…

The white torrent comes thundering down the mountainside…

Geralt moves with more speed and agility than any mortal has right to, even with double vision, and straight up swoops down to grab the elf and casting Quen, the two go tumbling behind a boulder, into some brush only to have the ground give way just as the wave crashes.

**______**

“Eghh,” Geralt groans as he comes to and Idrilla’s friendly voice welcomes him back, sighing “Uh, finally. Worried you were gonna die. Glad tha’ isn’t th’ case but yer leg is busted” before she wipes at a nosebleed, sniffling at the blood drips.

“Feels like it. And sorry about the…egh…dimeritium,” Geralt groans as she helps him sit upright but she eyes him curiously. Feeling the need to explain, the Witcher grumbles “You can’t cast.”

She shakes her head a small amount, careful not to upset the bruising around her neck from where the creature had her.

“Dimeritium then. It’s an exceedingly rare metal that inhibits…ugh…sorcery. Knocks practitioners on their ass,” he explains as she helps him further, acting as a crutch, “Bloodshot eyes and nosebleeds are typical.”

“Ah, tha’

explains it then. Thought th’ mark was interfering,” she winces out as the sliver sparks, “was trying to heal your leg but obviously tha’ isn’t happening.”

“Alright. Well, since we’re both alive, maybe you can explain what the hell _you_ were doing,” he growls and whacks her arm, “I was already taking care of it. All you had to do was leave.”

“Ow.”

“Why.”

“Second guessing. Don’t like many people, Creators, even among my own clan, but you’re… you.. I can tolerate you.”

Though he quirks a brow, he ultimately shrugs out “Hm.”

“And sorry about puttin’ you under but you should know I had it covered…”

No reply, he just lets a growl linger in his throat as she helps him limp along.

“But… uhh… thanks fer helpin’ me,” she amends, “Sure, could’ve done it myself but glad to have th’ company.”

“And now we can _both_ freeze to death,” he comments. She can’t cast. He can’t sign — got a whiff of the dimeritium dust topside — and now they’re both without fire in these frozen tunnels, stalactites of ice pointing down at them from above. It’s a short hobble in relative silence, following the howling of wind and hoping the stronger it gets, the closer they move toward freedom, but it isn’t long before Idrilla’s marked hand sparks and sputters, throwing a green light show up against the tunnel walls.

Descending upon them from the darkened ceiling, Despairs attacks, their mournful wails now obvious. It wasn’t wind, it was them. But the mark explodes, almost furious at the demons for having the gall to show themselves and the very air above splits open, a rift summoned, all ravenous to devour these creatures, and as soon as it started, its over, leaving the Witcher and Herald staring in pained confusion.

“Whit th’ fuck was tha’!?,” Idrilla curses after several paused breaths longer, shaking her marked hand in pain.

“You opened a… portal,” Geralt groans with distaste, less than pleased to see his longtime dislike so close up yet again. Were it orange, that’d be another matter, but this was a green and therefore still of this world, not anything to get hopeful over…

“Pfft, tha’ was a rift. Di’nt know I could do tha’,” Idrilla argues, her tone one or stunned shock, “I just… fuck. I think tha’ Elder thing made it worse.”

“Or sealing the Breach did it.”

“Shit.”

“Hm.”

“Don’ get me wrong — it made quick work of those demons and you and I aren’t exactly primed ta fight — but Fen’Harel’s asshole, it god damn hurt.”

“Fuck.”

“Fuck is right!,” she stresses and Geralt comments “Lost my sword” as he reaches over his shoulder with his free hand, finding the steel one’s sheath empty. At least the silver is still in place.

“Huh? Oh. Well, I don’ have my staff either. Tha’ thing snapped it in half while it was throwing me around like a rag doll. But it’s not like I could even cast right now, ya know?”

A groan escapes Geralt, conveying all his patience for this conversation.

“Better hope we can catch up ta th’ others,” she mutters as they continue limping along toward what they can only hope is the cave’s exit, the howling building to a roar, her words almost getting lost in the blizzard beyond…

**______**

“Another fire in the distance,” Idrilla notes a tiny dot of orange in a wall of white as snows whips past the two of them from the East, whistling down the mountain side, and Geralt grunts, “Yeah. I see it.”

“Glad yer… yer eyes are as good as mine,” she huffs in a burst of cold steam. The effects of the dimeritium dust wore off some hours ago and since then, she’s maintained a thin barrier about them both, inverting its fielding just enough to trap some heat escaping them so they don’t freeze to death. But how long can she keep that going? Only time will tell…

Wolves howl from somewhere in the pines.

“We’re gonna die in this,” she huffs and they trudge onward...

**______**

Huddled down by the dwindling flames of a dying campfire — evidence that people were here not to long ago — Geralt and Idrilla try to reclaim some of their vigor, shivering against the cold of night but at the very least, the snowstorm has passed. A few footprints in the snow still remain, not entirely buried yet by fresh powder…

“Gotta…gotta ask,” Idrilla struggles to say without trembling.

“Stop. Talking. Conserve your. Energy,” Geralt argues in short bursts, his breathing shallow.

“You were… avoiding me. Before this,” she persists, “Why?”

“What?”

“Since Redcliffe. An’ Don’t… don’t tell me it’s ma imagination. Whit did I…I do?,” she asks, side by side with him for warmth, hugging at her knees.

“Nothing,” Geralt rasps, parched and irritable.

“Tell me.”

“Hm.”

“T-tell me.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Then t-talk,” she shivers out and Geralt actually snaps at her, cursing “YOU BROKE THE DAMN UGHH…” before managing to rein in his temper. He’s not one to share, but due to his circumstances, he’s feeling more than blunt so getting it over with, he more calmly growls “You broke the… time traveling amulet.”

“So? Whit does… oh,” she questions but quickly realizes the intent.

“Yeah.”

“You wanted ta whit? Go back ta when you showed up? An’ whit then, just climb inta a portal tha’ only existed fer a split second?” She’s mocking him, sure, but she’s not wrong to.

“Hm.”

“You can’t be mad at me fer tha’,” she grumbles, “it’s a bad plan.”

“Didn’t say it… wasn’t.”

“Well… I’m not gonna say sorry fer breaking th’ damn thing.”

“Wasn’t asking y-you to… errrgh,” he winces against the cold and dull throb in his leg.

“Assuming we l-live… We’ll f-find yer friend an’ find you another way home,” she argues soundly with a slight stutter as her lips tremble and teeth click, “Just not whit t-time travel. Now let’s git moving… Unless you intend t-ta meet yer end out here. But I’ve gotta say, tha’d be pretty pathetic all things con-c-considered.”

Again, she helps the Witcher to his feet and though he’s numbed, his keen sense of smell still picks up the lingering odor of smoke, sweat, festering wounds and blood. The aroma of the defeated, following this should simple enough as long they’re downwind of the Inquisition. “It’s this way…” Geralt nods to the moonlit pass ahead, “we’re maybe… a few hours… behind them now.”

“They’re m-moving slow.”

“S-so are we…”

**______**

Hard to breathe...

Vision blurring…

So very tired…

Breath barely fogs the frigid air…

The elf and Witcher, they continue their trudge, their death march through the snow banks and only the cold ashes of what once was a fire is any indication of others having been through here…

Can’t think…

They’re legs buckle and give out, tumbling down into the white…

Can’t even feel the cold now…

**______**

“But what in the Maker was that?!”

“I don’t know!”

“You have spies! What purpose do spies serve if not to inform of us whatever the hell that _thing_ was?!”

“Cullen, stop. This is getting us no…”

“I’ll stop when I have some damn answers,” the voice seethes.

“Ughhh,” Geralt groans at noises of argument, rolling to his side on what feels to be an improvised cot, healers hurrying by to aid countless others in this tent and the next. Noting that, he gives his leg a stretch, testing it, and finds it pleasantly sedated. Bone set and leg splinted, empty vials littering the ground and the curious sensation of lingering magic, Geralt can only think ‘ _Guess it’s fixed_.’

“Yes,” that pale boy agrees, quite suddenly at his side, watching him like a puppy, his head tilted ever so, “You were hurting. Sharp, deep where bones live, but not like deeper pains, harder to understand. But now you’re not. They found you, helped you, because you helped them.”

“Alright,” Geralt dismisses — he didn’t need an oral presentation on the matter — just knowing they caught up is good enough.

“ _Who_ is he? _What_ is he? Abomination. Freak. Monster. Just send him to the Templars already. They would whisper these in their heads when they knew people could hear them. They couldn’t help it. But you poured salt on those thoughts. They’re withering and drying up.”

Jaw set, exhaling to make a point but knowing the kid won’t take the hint, he pulls himself upright, wholly ignored by the healers.

“She’s alive because of you. You’re alive because of her,” Cole whispers while looking out the tent flaps, tracking Geralt’s gaze to the stand alone tent surrounded by guards, a revered mother within dabbing a cloth at Idrilla’s sleeping form. From without, sleepless masses huddle close, watching, waiting with reverence of their Herald.

Again, Geralt overhears the arguing of the heads, this time Leliana laying blame, demanding “And why was she even left down there? She’s our only means of sealing rifts!”

“Because she _was_ coming. I trusted her to keep to that,” Cullen fires back, “It was supposed to be the abomi… the Witcher that would man the trebuchet, not her.”

“But you left!”

“Please, enough!,” Josephine urges though she’s soon to snap as well given the underlying tone, “What matters is that they are both alive. This is getting us no where…”

“Pfft,” Cullen grouses and smacks the side of a cart, “We _are_ nowhere.”

That at least seems to nail a pin that argument for the time being. Tensions are clearly high, people past their breaking points, but this is the way of things. You lose or you win, stalemates are just slow path to either.

Stealing a bloody cloak from the dead in their bed, bundling up, Geralt and Cole depart the healer’s tent and wander through the vacant faced crowd...

“She blessed you with her luck,” one dirtied man states unprompted and with a flat expression, Geralt just marches on by. Uncomfortable, not one to throw in with the notions Gods and Goddesses, he just wants to find a drink if any remain. He limps along with the unnoticed Cole before him, the ghost boy whispering “Please move aside” to those people in the way. Though they don’t seem to see him, they certainly heed the pale boy’s request but even as he moves through the crowd more still turn, whispering amongst themselves “She saved him, she did” and “The Herald of Andraste still sought to save his soul?” and “Maker be with him.”

It’s more than he can take.

He can handle the typical leering and lame insults but this, these religious fanatics are grating away his last shreds of sanity and so making his escape, he ends up wandering into the Charger’s little patch of snow and dirt, the usually boisterous group as somber and unsettled as the rest of the Inquisition…

Most have a cup in hand though few are partaking. Stitches, their medic, he’s mashing herbs in a small mortar, making his own poultice while the Inquisition healers tends to people far worse off.

“Dead and distant but closer than ever,” Cole says in a hush in an aside to Geralt, offering exposition, “A Cat, a small bit of Toast, and a Green Lee didn’t make it home.”

“Ah,” Geralt grunts of the vague comment, noticing now a few less faces, specifically two less dwarves and a human.

‘ _That redhead that winked,’_ he notes and Cole is quick to say with eyes going quartz, “Yes. An arrow. A cry. I can’t reach her in time, there’s far too many,” recalling her final moments from the eyes of another among the group…

 _’Disconcerting,’_ Geralt shrugs, ‘ _but useful.’_

Krem is stitching up a nasty stab on Bull’s shoulder. Doesn’t appear infected, just jagged. Looking up at the now-conscious Geralt, Bull rumbles out “Oh, hey… look who’s awake” but realizing the Witcher is staring at the injury, Bull feels need to trivialize “Oh, that thing? Some idiot with a spike for a hand managed to nick me” in an obvious attempt at deflection.

“Nick nothing, Chief, this is a stab,” his Lieutenant counters while threading a needle.

“Potato, potato,” he argues and takes a swig of that potent Qunari drink, sniffling some after the sip. Must be that crap — It’ll clear the sinuses if it doesn’t kill them outright.

“That’s not how it… ughh,” Krem groans while closing another loop. He doesn’t have the energy to keep arguing, not right now.

“Doesn’t matter. But hey, since we’re talking trophies, how about a little show and tell?”

“Erm,” Geralt grunts noncommittally while thinking ‘ _He’s looking for a distraction.’_

”Yes. The Iron Bull is hurting,” Cole whispers from behind to only Geralt.

“Oh, come on. This one here?,” Bull points to his bicep at what looks to be a pale set of indentations, “Vint thrall — magicked out of his gourd — latched on with his teeth. I know what you’re thinking, why didn’t he use a weapon? Easy — he couldn’t — I’d just cut off his arms.”

Geralt props himself up against a boulder, quiet and contemplative. 

“You’ve gotta give me something. Just one. Come oooooon,” Bull encourages, hunched over with Krem moving out of the way so Stitches can apply a salve. While he’s rubbing the medicine into the injury, Krem actually joins Bull in trying to ferret out a story, both chanting “The eye, the eye, the eye, they eye” until even a few other Chargers lend their voice to the call. Their little show turns more than a few heads their way, garnering irritated glances and looks of disdain.

“Hmmm,” Geralt growls just loud enough to get them all to shut it, “...Souvenir from a cockatrice.” Fuck it. He just got out of the medic’s tent so sparring isn’t on the table. There isn’t enough to get drunk on. This will have to do in terms of venting.

“Sorry? Cocka-what?,” Krem questions but Bull sits quietly, patient, eager to know this enemy, and so, Geralt sighs out the lore, explaining “Should two roosters couple and lay an egg — and that egg is sat upon by a toad for forty days — it births a monster, a cockatrice.” Running a finger down the gnarly mark, Geralt adds “Imagine a hybrid beast. Part dragon. Part rooster. Bigger than a man and venomous. It got the jump on me, nothing special.”

“You’re shitting me,” Iron Bull gawks with just the slightest curve of a smile tugging at his mouth, “A chicken did that? A giant chicken?” and a few of the chargers get to chuckling at the idea.

“Hm.”

“I perzonally would like to know about zee neck scar,” Skinner addresses while sharpening her knives, her joyless eyes locked on the Witcher.

It’s then the rest go quiet. Geralt’s mouth twists to the side in consideration for a moment but reaching down, stealing Bull’s drink to the big guy’s nothing protest of “Hey, that’s mine,” Geralt utters “Consider it payment” and takes a deep swig of the nerve-killing liquor.

With a second swig, his throat going numb, he loosens his stained cloak and pulls at the collar of his filthy shirt, revealing a nasty sum of scar tissue chewed into his neck. As they get a good look at it, Geralt grunts “Striga” and this time, there’s no joking, no dumb commentary on the name. They just want to know. “Extremely violent and powerful…” Geralt goes on to say, “in this case, she was a princess cursed before her birth and chewed her way out of her own mother’s corpse with razor fangs. Deformed, all bent bones, long claws, rotting muscle, an insatiable hunger, and impossibly quick… the _thing_ she became grew in the mausoleum, indiscriminately feeding on villagers its entire life in the dead of night. I wasn’t trying to kill her — I’d heard rumor of a way to remove the curse — and so I fought her until the daybreak, keeping her from her coffin. That morning, there wasn’t the monster, but just a girl.”

All eyes on his now as he sighs “She was feral, never having known another way. She got in close and…” and trails off at the end. “Almost died but a friend managed to save me.”

“God… damn,” Bull rumbles, impressed by the sound of it, “Yyyeah, you earned that drink.”

“Yezz,” agrees Skinner with her particular accent and others nod in kind.

“That’s the most I’ve ever heard you t... huh, wait, where’d the kid go?,” Bull must be asking of Cole.

“The pale boy?”

“Yyyyeah. He was... just sitting next to you,” he says but Krem utters “You drunk, Chief? There wasn’t anyone there.”

“Uhhh… right, sure,” Bull rumbles, eyes narrowed and unconvinced.

Geralt, his eyes flicking to the boy, his medallion vibrating, sees him just fine — Cole puts a finger to his own lips — and so he opts not to say anything. _‘Controls who sees him?,’_ the Witcher wonders but the boy nods and that’s answer enough. 

“...cannot simply ignore this!,” Cassandra fires off, the argument boiling over yet again, “we must find a way!”

“And who put you in charge?,” Cullen snipes, “We need a consensus or we have nothing.”

“Please, we must use reason! Without the infrastructure of the Inquisition, we’re hobbled,” Josephine chimes in but Cullen snaps “Well that can’t come from nowhere!”

“She didn’t say it could!,” Leliana argues, threat heavy in her tone.

“Enough!”

While the rest of camp tries it’s best to ignore, there seems to be a stirring of people drawing closer to the Herald’s tent. To this, Cole cocks his head in consideration, uttering “She’s awake.”


	17. Chapter 17

But only days ago, the Inquisition was lost to the wild, crippled, displaced, and aimless.

Then _she_ woke up.

The faithful performed a musical number, and after a quiet aside with Solas, Idrilla was able to guide them all through the Frostbacks to safety, to new haven, to this beauty of a mountain keep. Age old stone smoothed down by the passing of time or something more, its seams only obvious where in disrepair, this beauty has twin waterfalls emptying from the North and South sides of the fortress, built upon some naturally occurring font. Between the crisp air, the scent of pines and mildew, Geralt has difficulty not being reminded of Kaer Morhen….

The whole place reeks of magics, the scent seeped into the very stone.

While the remnant survivors settled in, trying to recoup, Geralt took to exploring, wandering about, mostly out of professional curiosity — this place had been abandoned for who knows how long and any number of creature could’ve taken up residence or formed a nest — but a portion of his need to explore came from wanting some time alone.

…Fortunately, there was nothing more than a den of fennecs in the rafters, a few nugs in the basement, and a single wisp in a decrepit study that bobbed excitedly in the air before vanishing…

Nothing to slay.

Good.

But with the immediate potential for threats looked into, Geralt found himself gravitating to the caved in ruins of what once had to be stables, content to hideout there while people get situated in this Skyhold.

**______**

  
Day three: with nothing better to do, Geralt’s just taking stock of his supplies, going over what potions and grenades he has left...

One Devil’s Puffball, three Grapeshots, and one Samum, all of which seem to be in good condition.

One still sealed Succubus decoction.

...as well as what alchemical ingredients hadn’t been pilfered by the Spymaster during her investigation. Some mistletoe, green mold, saltpeter, wolfsbane, verbana, a harpy feather, and an alghoul claw, but not enough of anything to manufacture more advantages.

Stranger still, his carefully curated Gwent decks are nowhere to be found. Gonna have to have a word with the the redhead about that...

“Damn it,” Geralt sighs quietly in the shade of the ruined stables with his pack laid bare before him but the murmuring of people congregating in the courtyard draws his attention. The redhead stands on high, overlooking the forming crowd as the other heads mill about. They’re clearly trying to have some sort of public announcement but the way their looking around, they don’t have their Herald…

“What do you think?,” Blackwall asks as he strolls over, coming to rest by the well and Geralt exhales “About?”

“That _thing._ That Corypheus.”

The Witcher never had the pleasure of a formal introduction, not to that creature. He’d only been made aware it even had a name on the journey here. As it is, he grunts “Ugly bastard” hoping that’s enough while he puzzles over substitutes he can make for lost ingredients.

“And worse, he had good Templars under his thumb.”

“Mhmm,” Geralt hums while thinking ‘ _Would blood lotus work in place of blood moss? Fat is easy enough to obtain. Recall seeing hellebore and honeysuckle in the Hinterlands…’_

“And what of her?”

 _‘Wait, blood lotus is hallucinogenic. Rashvine’s an irritant. Would the two make for a good sword oil?,’_ Geralt puzzles over applications while grunting “Hm?” at Blackwall.

“Is she really Andraste’s chosen?,” he seems sad as he asks. For whatever reason, the grizzled man isn’t taking the hint and Geralt feels forced to give a curt “Wrong person to ask” in answer.

“No, really.”

“I don’t have a horse in this race.”

“I want to know your thoughts on the matter.”

“Ugh,” Geralt sighs, not eager to talk, “Doubtful then,” but unfortunately for him, Blackwall must be in a mood because he leans on the offensive, snidely shooting off “Why? Because you’re not from here? Pfft, I’ve heard the rumors.”

_Rumors?_

“Don’t pout.”

”I’m not pouting — I’m not some girl whose supposed friends have left her out of their knitting circle.”

“Oddly...specific. Still, didn’t take you for a gossip,” Geralt grunts. He’s not exactly hiding his origins, in fact, he was all too upfront about it in the beginning. Then again, Blackwall might be the only traveling partner he hasn’t overtly explained it to...

The upset man scratches at his beard as he says “I’m not, but the way the higher ups keep an eye on you, it’s hard to ignore really.”

“Hm.”

“That’s all you’ve got to say?”

‘ _Belligerent. Clearly upset over Haven. Lashing out_ ,’ Geralt reasons. He could drop this, simply ignore the grizzled man. Alternatively, could just tell him to fuck off. Instead, Geralt goes with option three, unreasonably sneering “Hard to ignore the way they look at you” almost in threat.

To that, he can hear Blackwall’s heart beat just a little quicker even as he tries to dismiss with “ Oh, that? It’s no matter, just a foolish idea that the Wardens and conclave are linked. But you knew that.”

‘ _Continuing the charade then,’_ Geralt sighs at the thought but rising to his feet, he steps in close, uncomfortably so, and pointedly sniffs at the veteran. “What in the Maker’s name are you doing!,” Blackwall demands and shoves at the Witcher but all Geralt has to say is “Hm. Could be they’re paying attention to you because they know.”

Blackwall, eyes narrowing, he growls “Know what?”

“Wardens have blight or taint or whatever in their blood.”

Nothing. Blackwall has nothing to say. He’s frozen.

“You don’t,” Geralt comments and Blackwall barks “That-That’s a lie and you’d be a damn fool to spread that.”

“No. it’s not. But unlike you, I’m not prone to gossip.”

“Where do you get off?!”

Forcing a grin, it’s appearance unnatural on his face, Geralt informs “I was in a cave for days with _it_ in my blood. I know well its scent.”

Heart beating quickly, the smell of fear permeating, Blackwall just stands in silence. Geralt though, dropping the fake smile and crouching down to gather up his belongings, he poses “So if anyone asks, you’re a Warden and I’m?”

Blackwall, catching on but gravely serious, “Not a talking point.”

“Glad we understand each other,” he sighs and walks off, needing a bit more isolation now, a distraction. Leaving the man behind to stew, he comes to a stuck door in the side of the castle, jammed from years of warping — ripping it off its rusted hinges and stomping through ensuing dust cloud, he continues until entering the dark chamber where he’d found the nugs earlier on.

There’s breathing.

It’s faint, well controlled.

A green spark goes off and Idrilla’s momentarily illuminated before she buries her hand in the folds of her shirt, but knowing she’s not alone, she sighs “Oh, hey Geralt” almost regretfully.

“I’ll find myself another room,” Geralt replies but with Idrilla seeming as unsettled as she appears, he stops himself and forces small talk, saying “I’m pretty sure they’re looking for you.”

“Ugh, yes,” she groans, “Got everyone in th’ courtyard, clearly planning something. Either a very public execution er…”

“Or?”

“Er a promotion? Ugh, they already think me god touched — don’t want tha’ an’ I never did — but now they’re about ta do something stupid. I’m not… I mean… I don’t even believe in their human god. ...Almost wishing this does turn out ta be an execution.”

“If you’re the boss, you can command people to leave you alone.”

“No. Any title like tha’…it’s a leash. An’ then I can’t just disappear,” she admits her thoughts on the matter and reveals, “Got off this path once before — bein’ my clan’s First — not thrilled ta be back on it. But it’s bigger. Well, listen ta me ramble, you don’t know whit a First is anyway.”

“Hm, true on both counts.”

“An’ it’s not like I could leave anyway, not whit tha’ Elder thing huntin’ me.”

“Mhm.”

“An’ my magic didn’t do anything! Couldn’t even hurt tha’ bastard.”

“Hm,” grunts again, just to mimic a response, to give this a feel of a coversation.

“But _I’m_ expected ta take him on? I heard them talking, whit everyone expects… ughhhh,” she complains and flops back against wall, intentionally banging her head, “By th’ Creators, If anyone should be in charge, it should be..”

“No.”

“Why not? You had a plan. Whit you did actually affected him.. you stand a better chance than I do.”

“Quiet.”

“But you,” she starts only Geralt interjects “What I did was random, down to the contents of my bag and more than likely to fail. For all I knew, the weight in it could have been rocks planted as substitutes by your spymaster. I didn’t check.” To that, she frowns at the Witcher but that gives him the opening to say “It was purely coincidental that I hit him with what I did, that the grenade even detonated properly, and that we managed to survive” and her mouth squinches to the side. “Go outside…. Or don’t,” he shrugs and begins to wander off.

“Gods, fine. I’ll get it over whit.”

“Whatever _you_ want.”

“Oh, sure, whatever _I_ want,” she rolls her large green eyes and shoots him the prongs gesture, a _fuck you_ in most every language...

**______**

Geralt’s patrolling the wall, mapping the surrounding mountain peaks should he have to venture out, committing the landscape to memory. Minding his own business when someone whistles and comments “Woo, look what the demons dragged in” like it’s a joke.

_Haven’t I suffered enough fools?_

No such luck — this stranger comments “demons because... well, you look like you got into it with.. Ahem.”

“Hm. Sometimes.”

“I just mean, wow, look at you,” the dark haired stranger comments yet again like it’s news while running his fingers through his pitch black beard, stroking it in thought.

A metal neck guard and stole latched to his leathers...

Spiky guards and grieves...

Some manner of glaive in hand though its pommel has an eerie gleam, almost like those staves all the mages here have to carry...

Whoever he is, he’s strange to say the least and then the beginnings of argument down below spooks the shaggy man. As he ducks down behind the ledge, listening, Geralt would prefer to ignore but can’t help but overhear “I swear to you Varric, if you brought who I think you have, I _will_ throttle you!”

“Seeker, just who do think I’ve brought? Any personal connections you may _think_ I have…”

“ _The_ Champion,” she fumes and then there’s the sound of pottery breaking, a chair getting knocked around.

“Oh screw you!,” Varric argues as the sounds of scuffle continue, “Get your hands off me!”

“You knew where he was this entire time!”

“The hell I did!,” Varric shouts and this stranger leans back to agree “He really didn’t” with a hushed tone. Varric though, he fires off “And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell _you_. You had me tortured! Beaten! And I’m glad he wasn’t here to be your precious savior, your leader, whatever. The world has taken enough from him.”

Well, no one sounds like they’re bleeding or dying and so Geralt couldn’t really care less about this little spat or this eavesdropper hiding out. Too obvious to be a spy and likely not an assassin.

Plus, seems to know Varric.

Probably isn’t an immediate threat. As it is, Geralt just continues in his wall walk, studying the highs and lows of the range, even as the stranger hisses out “Where are you going??”

“Hm. To not be involved.”

“Please don’t tell anyone I’m here!”

“Don’t care enough to.”

The bearded mage throws an appreciative wave and clicks his teeth at the Witcher but it’s unreciprocated. He’s got a task to finish, to commit to memory every angle and peak of the surrounding Frostbacks. After some thirty steps, even over the din of the people working and toiling below, Geralt can still catch a distant “Ah, you must be her. I’ve heard so much about you! Too much? Varric talks a lot...”

Glancing back, it’s sure enough Idrilla, in a secret meeting with the stranger…

No matter…

**______**

Four stone walls, an enormous tree trunk for the war table and littered with maps, thirteen gather round at Idrilla’s beckoning…

Yes, she’d taken up the mantle of Inquisitor.

…evidently, she and the council have a plan in the works.

“By all reports,” the Spymaster begins, hidden in shadow as she so prefers, “there is to be an attempt on Empress Celene’s life, most likely during the Winter Ball. The Inquisitor and Dorian learned of this plot in their dealing with Alexius and his dark future. Josie, if you would...”

“Ahem, yes, well, I’ve reached out to several interested parties, each of whom could gain us entry as guests, but the most promising of them is Gaspard de Chalons, cousin to the Empress. At present, he’s also… waging a civil war against her in the Exalted Plains for the right of succession and rule.”

“Why is??” Idrilla starts to question but Madame Vivienne answers “Because they are family, darling, and his attendance can be regrettably considered a ceasefire. Celene _should_ just kill the upstart, not give his tantrum any credibility.”

Somewhat placated, Idrilla puts down her hand, letting others continue.

“So, following your investigation into Crestwood,” Josephine explains, “Where you will allegedly meet The Champion…”

“Hawke,” Dorian whispers just behind Geralt like that means anything to him.

“…and his Warden ally, you all will travel North to shoreline of West Hill where you will be able to book passage across the Waking Sea to Orlais — after careful negotiating, we have been granted rights to draw up promissory notes on behalf of the aforementioned nobles that you will give to the Captain of the Broken Crest. You _will_ all be on your best behavior. That is not up for debate,” Josephine pointedly says that last bit, her usual charm smacking of an unspoken death threat. But looking to the now-Inquisitor and clearing her throat, Josephine utters “Inquisitor?”

“Oh, right. So I met th’ Hawke person,” Idrilla begins and Varric slips in an “Just Hawke, kid” despite Cassandra seething in the corner. Idrilla, not catching the tension in the air, she continues “Anyway, I know it’s last minute, but we leave tonight. I wanna get this done fast. Assassins won’t wait fer us so we have ta get ta tha’ dance thing before it starts.”

“Makes sense,” Cullen says while hunched over a map, “Whatever you learn about the wardens or demon armies, be sure to send a raven with updates. I’ll keep the troops mobilized and ready to depart at a moments notice. Safe travels, Inquisitor.”

 _‘He seems to have gotten the stick out of his ass,’_ Geralt can’t help note as people funnel out but the Commander actually calls him out, saying “You, hold.” Geralt, turning to face the constipated looking Cullen, he says nothing.

“You wield two swords for… whatever reason.”

“Silver harms creatures of…”

“Stop. I don’t care for _your_ reason,” Cullen holds his hand up, “My point is, if you are to be defending the Inquisitor, I want you at your best which means…ughh, it means you need your second weapon.” Extending a note at the Witcher, Cullen states “Give this to Harritt in the undercroft, proof of my requisition authorization, and he’ll see to your need.”

Somewhat surprised that the Commander is being so amenable, Geralt actually goes to say “Hm. Thank y…” but Cullen cuts him off again, interjecting “Just do a better job this time than you did in Haven. It was supposed to be you out there, not her, but you let her slip past you.”

 _‘I suppose he doesn’t know she put me under. That must not be common knowledge,’_ Geralt thinks but only grunts “Mhm” for now, closing his callused hand around the scrap of parchment, crumpling it some in his grip.

Out of the war room and into the diplomat’s claimed space, a desk already pulled from some manner of storage and stacked high with documents, Geralt nods “Miss Montilyet” to the poppy bright woman drafting a letter of sorts and she beams back “Ah, Ser Geralt.”

Hard not to show some degree of a grin in her presence — she’s the only one in this world that’s somehow a perpetual beacon with that unyielding smile of hers. What more, it doesn’t feel fake like the so many other politicians he’s had the displeasure of doing business with.

“…Do be careful on your mission, won’t you?”

“No promises,” he partially smirks on an exhale.

“You know, despite your… _stoic_ nature, were you to become injured again, I believe many within the Inquisition would find such news terribly upsetting.”

“Oh. I’m sure,” he nods sarcastically, “I can count on my hand the number of people that would…”

“Well, I do hope you count me among them,” she smiles and watches as he leaves, her quill missing the ink bottle as she tries to wet the tip. Closing the door behind himself, standing now in the mess of a main hall, he has to stop himself from letting a chuckle slip past…

**______**

New sword — some rust toned saber of a blade, forged from a mineral known as Drakstone —it’s not perfect but it’ll suffice. To quote that Harritt man, “It’s not some gleaming piece of silverite but it’ll get the job done.”

All the same, geared up and ready to go, though he could just meditate in some darkened corner until dusk, he found that a building in the courtyard already gathering a small crowd. Though the top two floors are in need of heavy repair, the ground floor apparently had old casks hidden in a backroom. For now, drinks are being served…

Unless it turns out the samples have been contaminated. Then everyone but Geralt would likely not be walking away from here.

…already taking to the post, almost stereotypical of his kind, a dour looking dwarf of a man is propped up on a stool behind the wall of casks, taking orders as his apparent business partner Flissa walks about, serving up the drinks. The place is turning out to be a fine improvised watering hole.

And where there’s drinks, there’s a bard. Maryden has already set up under a broken staircase, tuning her strings and hoping to redirect some of that patronage…

Suppose Geralt can mark Flissa as one of those people who’d possibly care — as the redhead comes to hand him a cup of something amber as he was stands in the corner, despite her nervous energy, she tells him “I didn’t say it before — not that I didn’t want to then — but I, well, thank you so much for saving me! Here, this one is on me.”

‘ _Unexpected, but appreciated_ ,’ he thinks to himself as he nods and takes a measured sip...

The bard plucks her strings in an upbeat tune, singing…

“…stay out of trouble and stay far behind•shouldn’t stalk after the lady divine•Howling and prowling with no sense in miiind…•The white wolf goes cry-hi-ying.”

_What now?_

“…A wolf without a pack is naught•A lonely creature most distraught•Fool, you shan’t go where _She_ waaaalks•The white wolf goes cry-hi-ying…”

_No._

“Distracting our savior in time of fear•As she faces off against grim magister•Carried him home in….hey! Wait, give it back!,” she ceases her harmonizing as Geralt swipes her lute, intentionally snapping a string, and shoving it back into her clutching hands. In recompense, he drops several silvers in the soundhole, leaving them to rattle until she can fish them out when she pleases. His only advice to her, “I let a friend get away with falsehoods and it only spoiled him. Consider this a favor,” shocking both in that it’s the most he’s ever spoken to her and secondly, without cursing. With that, he moves to leave, planting his upturned cup on the improvised bar, nodding to the dwarf who seems amused by the bard’s misfortune, and walking to the door as the crowd parts for him.

“Damn that man,” she curses with a sigh in what she assumes is under her breath, “But you were dumb. You should have waited until he left…”

“Should have,” Geralt states before leaving the bar and her face goes pink with embarrassment…

**______**

“Highway men. Damn fools but they must have been desperate,” Blackwall comments as he yanks his sword free from the fresh kill at the road’s edge, the moonlight refusing to gleam upon his blade for all the dark red currently coating it.

“I’m just surprised they didn’t shit themselves when they saw me,” the Iron Bull addresses while using a dead man’s shirt to wipe clean his axe, “Could’ve sworn most Fereldens haven’t seen my people.”

“True, the barbaric might of your people might inspire fear, however until recently, the Breach posed a much greater concern,” Solas is compelled to point out “In the face of that, starvation, and despair, what threat does a single Qunari pose?”

“Well, they _are_ dead now,” Bull dismisses, making a talking hand gesture behind Solas’ back but upon spotting Madam de Fer’s icy stare, Bull drops the mockery and straightens up.

“Enough idle chatter,” Cassandra reminds, “We need to make camp if we are to be in any decent condition by the time we reach Crestwood.”

Geralt, he’s just dragging the dead to the tree line, tossing the bodies he’s already looted in a pile.

“Remember to…” the Seeker starts to remind but Geralt signs igni, igniting the dead as per the observed customs of Ferelden, leaving Cassandra to clear her throat, saying “Ahem, yes, but perhaps you could have waited until all were over there?”

“Smaller piles will burn more quickly and draw less attention,” the Witcher states while returning his attention to those with pockets yet unturned. A few coppers, a sprig of elfroot, he wasn’t expecting much but this is practically nothing. Clubs and butcher knives, these weren’t a true band of crooks, but likely peasants displaced by the earlier conflict. ‘ _It didn’t have to be this way,’_ he thinks to himself as he closes the eyes of a gaunt-cheeked young woman, ‘ _Can’t be more than fourteen_ …’

Though she has no need for it any longer, Geralt can’t bring himself to rob this particular dead. Placing the coppers in her palm and closing the fingers, he hefts her over onto the second pile before setting fire to the hem of her ragged pants and shirt. Flames ripple across the worn fibers, spreading like water unencumbered, enveloping the bodies of her and those other unlucky few beneath its orange glow…

As bodies burn, Geralt moves to kneel before a tree near where the horses are tied up, his drakestone sword laid bare before him in the damp grass, easily accessible. The others can make camp, undo saddle packs, pitch tents, talk or what have you, but he’ll have none of that. Doesn’t need it. He’s good to simply rest here and meditate in peace, keeping his ears keen to the noises of the forest.

Cole, he’s nowhere to be seen, off doing whatever it is he does when chooses to slip from sight…

Dorian is uncharacteristically quiet and lacking sass at present — he yawns, eager for sleep.

“Oi, Witch errrrr, wut are you d…,” Sera mock growls at him, trying to get his attention for something or another but he’s already tuning her out…

Listening for beyond the people present…

In the distance, a something small scrabbles up a tree…

Something clacks its antlers on a branch, leaves rustling…

An owl hoots into the night and another answers…

Crickets…

No people, not out there…

“So,” the familiar voice of Idrilla announces itself beside him, questioning, “whit are you doing now?”

“...Keeping watch.”

“You mean ta...don’t people usually use their eyes fer tha?,” she asks, apparently put off by the hunching, “I mean, you do you, tha’s yer business.”

“Listening for threats then,” he sighs, popping one eyes open to get a look at the string bean of an elf. Squatting down, balancing on the balls of her bare feet, Idrilla brushes her dark dreads back past her ears and gives em a twitch, trying to listen in as well…

“Yeah…not hearing mich of anything beyond this lot,” she comments and lets her hair fall back into place before making light of him, saying, “then again, you’ve got… I dunno, magic ears?”

“Not exac…”

“A ghost tha’ tells you secrets?”

“Actually, someti…” Geralt tries to confirm — of Cole — only she won’t stop.

“Got it,” she snaps her fingers, “You talk with th’ Dread Wolf,” as if that’s supposed to mean something to him. Though he’s been in this world for a handful of months, there’s no way he’s cracked a book on the lore and mythos. Hell, even if he were to, he has no grasp of the written language here — Common here is not exactly his common. At his blank expression, she’s says “because he’s th’ Dread wolf an’ yer th’ white wolf? Yer both wolves. Oh, come on. It’s funny.”

“Of course it is. Jokes that require explanation are always good,” he replies with dry sarcasm.

“Wait, was tha’… psh, yer a hard one ta read. Can’t tell with you tonight,” she gives up and with a stretch, takes to sauntering off, to find a spot all her own. Solas seems amused at least, breathily chuckling to himself behind his hand as he lurks in the tree line, seemingly looking for something in particular…

**______**

Rocky.

Uncomfortable.

Slick.

Dangerous.

Such are the perfect adjectives for the lake-side region of Crestwood. The path to the shoreline camp of the Inquisition scouts was winding, the rain coming down nearly as hard as it had along the Storm Coast. With the water laden ground sucking at their feet, the terrain too uncertain to ride horseback, they eleven walked the rest of the way in and after tying their horses down, they proceed to be briefed.

As they enter the rock wall surrounded grotto overgrown with creeping vines, the dwarf scout Harding turns and says “Good to see you all safe” and then giving a singular greeting to Idrilla of “Inquisitor” before explaining “We have trouble ahead…”

“So whit’s th’ problem?”

“If you would kindly look over there,” Harding brings to attention the ominous glow of an enormous rift under the lake, the waters roiling at its edges, and several people utter prayers or curses under their breath before she continues, “So Old Crestwood was the site of a flood ten years ago during the Blight. It’s not the only rift in the area but after it appeared, corpses started walking out of the lake.”

 _‘Are the corpses Blighted?,’_ Geralt takes mental notes, ‘ _Something to watch out for.’_

“…And you’d have to fight through them to get to the cave where Hawke’s…” she explains but Geralt slips away. Already at the back of the group, it’s easy enough to leave unnoticed. All eyes are on the lake rift and listening in to the scout.

That there’s an Old Crestwood implies the existence of a New Crestwood so it should be easy — follow the only road.

In no time, he’s found some stragglers, two undead threatening an elf woman and two men who by their armor, must be Wardens. Again, it’s just the two corpses and though they smell rancid and rotten, they don’t reek of Blight. Walking right up behind them, Geralt trips one and gives its head a stomp and then promptly shoves the other on a fence post, caving in its face. No need to draw a sword. Wiping his gloves off, skirting the Wardens’ little protective detail, they eye him suspiciously, swords still raised as if to defend. 

“Cowards,” he growls at them to their stunned surprise and keeps walking until getting to an abandoned portion of village, broken and ransacked, but spies the aforementioned damned that up ahead.

So there’s also a handful of demons. They look to be lesser Horrors, nothing too difficult.

Finally having need to, he pulls free his silver, its runes lighting up in the dour grey, and takes to performing his deadly dance. To the shock of villagers on walls and those barricading the gates, he mows down dead after dead and Horror after Horror until all but one demon remains.

Rage.

Smaller than the first one he fought. Not impressive. Sheathing his silver so as not to damage it in the molten inferno of the creature, Geralt darts around, slinging and splashing mud at the creature. Certainly, the rain is causing it pain enough already with every droplet stinging its flesh but the mud is smothering. It screams out its hate in a series of belches and gurgles, smoke and flames trying to escape from its mouth as it suffocates until Geralt finally snuffs it out, burying it, really caking on the wet earth. Catching his breath, and stealing a sword from a downed corpse, he drives it into Rage’s head and gives it a twist for good measure.

The iron goes warm to the touch but the creature is dead.

Villagers immediately open the gates to Geralt, bidding him “Get in, quickly! Before more come!” and instead, the first thing he does is question “I see a dam — can you empty the lake?”

“Ser?”

“I’m not a knight. Answer the question.”

“You’d have to talk to the mayor about that. Uh, he…just follow the road to the last house on the…” the villager tries to explain but apparently having forgotten his left from right, hopefully due to his being distraught, he stares at where he’s trying to direct the Witcher to and finally just says “That one. The one up there. Th-that’s the mayor.”

Grumpy, just wanting to get out of the rain, to expedite this detour as quickly as possible, he doesn’t bother with any more questions, just walking on through the gathering of people hiding being their walls, following the path up…

“You did good,” Cole suddenly says beside him. Then again Cole could’ve been there the whole time for all he knew. “Dead determined. Rotted reminders. But it just took one man to stand against them? Maybe we _can_ survive,” Cole adds, drawing or reading or whatever it is he does of someone in the village.

“You could have helped.”

“But you didn’t ask,” the ghost boy comments innocently.

They find the door to the mayor’s home wide open, the man in charge stinking of sweat and fear, furiously penning notes on an a kitchen table. At their intrusion, the man drops his quill, panicking “J-just who are you!? Stop there!”

“Can the dam be used to lower the water level of the lake?”

“I..what?”

With a sigh, Geralt repeats his question, verbatim, “Can the dam. Be used. To lower the water level of the lake?”

“The lake? It’s uh… I… y-you can’t,” the mayor stammers out, “the fort. It’s..its.. there’s bandits and the wheel is broken. So much is just wrong.”

“Bandits.”

“And the wheel is broken!,” the mayor almost squeaks in reminder.

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Y-you can’t possibly.. I can’t ask you to do that!,” the mayor stresses, “it’s far too dangerous! Also, yes, I can’t pay you!”

“Already paid off,” Geralt grunts and goes to leave, the mayor calling out “Wait? Where are you going!?” but the Witcher doesn’t care. If he wanted to listen to people babble and ramble, he could do just that outside a tavern. But retracing his steps, exiting the gates, and going to stomp off on down to the Keep to the West, Cassandra shouts “Witcher! What are _you_ doing!?”

“Is it not obvious?,” he waves to the various dead by his hand.

“You can’t just…”

“Already did. You have a Hawke to find so I’m clearing a path to the lake rift,” Geralt growls over her but to this, Bull eagerly chimes in “No shit? Oh, I’m in.”

“I was told we’ll have to clear out some bandits first.”

“I’m definitely in,” Bull grins out, gripping his axe and ready to use it.

“Dibs,” Sera pipes up, “I’ve got dibs on the bandit boss. Dibs.”

“You can’t call dibs yet!,” the horned hulk tells the crazy archer, “You have to at least see them first.”

“Pbbbbt,” she raspberries until Cassandra shouts “ENOUGH. Just. Be. Quiet.”

“Eh, makes sense,” the Inquisitor shrugs, “cover more ground.”

“But he just… he went off on…” Cassandra sort of deflates, having difficulty grasping the lack of order, but ultimately rolls her eyes and scoffs hard at the situation, bemoaning “Maker, fine...”

“Inquisitor, a moment,” Lady Vivienne advises, “I believe it in these people’s — and our — best interest if I remain here until the rift has been dealt with. I can keep these loathsome undead and demons at bay all the while currying favor with this town.” Ensuring her hennin is as impeccable as the rest of her outfit, the rain somehow avoiding her, she adds “Consider it good public relations, darling.”

“Sure? Do whit you want, sounds good,” Idrilla agrees, somewhat confused by the apparent necessity for everyone explaining themselves, “Just don’t die?”

“But of course.”

“You know, Inquisitor, I think my talents are best spent here as well,” Dorian offers, a sly smirk upon his face as he wipes at his wet mustache, “After all, you never know when a few possessed corpses will up and become a horde of gnashing mouths, all too ravenous for one’s skin.”

Giving his proposal some consideration, Idrilla questions, “…you just don’t want ta slog through these hills.”

“Ahem, I would be _slogging_ in style, but no, I don’t. I’d much rather stay right here,” he admits.

“A magister fighting _for_ the people?,” Vivienne sasses, “My, how contrarian of you.”

“You Southerners with your backwards thinking that everyone in Tevinter is a magister,” he replies, his words dripping with intended sarcasm, “My father may be one but I _am_ not.”

“You are to them,” she casually waves to the town, knowing well her audience.

“Wh…well… Then it’s absolutely in _my_ best interest to assist you,” he huffs, “Consider it _good public relations_ ” which earns him a smirk from the lady in white.

“So you two are staying here. Sure,” Idrilla lays down the game plan, “Iron Bull, Sera, Geralt…” only Cole slips into the group to say “And me” but without missing a beat, apparently familiar enough with the ghost boy, she continues, “Yes. You four deal with th’ bandits an’ lake stuff. Blackwall, Solas, Cassandra, Varric, you’re with me. Everyone good?” Thunder cracks and the winds shift, carrying the odors of low tide, the dead and fish with it — Her nose wrinkling in repulsion, just as a sheet of rain sweeps down upon them, she groans and just starts walking South to the hills.

Clearly Crestwood isn’t her favorite of places either…

No goodbyes — though Varric coughs uncomfortably — the groups split up, going their separate ways with Geralt’s merry band of four heading down a muddy path toward the occupied keep but if it does have bandits residing within, from the looks of things, namely the lack of people manning the sentry points along the walls, it’s operated by a skeleton crew. Should be easy pickings.

Offhandedly, Geralt grunts “Thought she was too bright for you,” as hard rain strikes his face, not really looking for an answer, but despite this and even possessing the odd ability to read people, Cole says “That was before, when the sky was still hurting. She still hurts to look at but not as much now.”

“Makes sense,” Geralt says.

“Wha? How the heck duz that make any sense at all?!,” Sera tries to understand while uneasily gripping her bow.

“Hm.”

“Oh, huge surprise, there, the man who only grunts is grunting,” Sera argues, likely doubting her choice to join this team, “Everything you say sounds the damn same. And this place is stupid and everything smells damp and fish and who even lives here!?

“Think you fell off point there, Sera,” Bull rumbles.

“Pfft, no I didn’t.”

“Oh, C’mon,” Bull smirks, “How about we kill those bandits. Make it a competition? Would that cheer you up.”

Though she doesn’t say anything, the corners of her mouth curl. Just doesn’t wanna give him the satisfaction of being right right now.

“So…do I need to point out the obvious?,” Bull asks while looking up and down the oversized gate, the wood and steel for which look newer than the keep, “How the hell are we getting in?”

Cole, looking to the castle and the ground and the sky above, he absently whispers “A hole in the hill, but she remembers using it when she was young. I know the way… follow me…”

“Uhhh,” Sera asks, put off, “Do we have to?”

“I could always throw you over the wall,” Bull offers with a knowing smirk.

”Are u loony? No, never that.”


	18. Chapter 18

“You could…have warned…us about the…ah, the giant fucking spider,” Bull huffs, winded by the fight. The great albino monster lays dead, four of its black eyes blinded by arrows and seven of its eight tufted legs severed by the group before they could land a killing blow. “The thing is…is huge,” he pants in awe, grunting as he yanks his axe from between its dripping mandibles.

“You scared her,” Cole answers innocently.

“Right. I scared her. Of course. Why didn’t I consider that?”

“Uhehehehe,” Sera shakes with nervous laughter, grossed out and more than willing to let her arrows stay in the creature, “Don’t even like em when they’re small and crawly.” 

“Between the lock and the spider,” Geralt posits while looking up a darkened shaft, holding onto a ladder at the bottom, “my guess is these bandits aren’t watching this entrance too closely.”

“Or, they definitely are. I mean, we did just make a shit ton of noise,” Bull says in all seriousness now.

“Got an idea, be ready, kay?,” Sera darts past Geralt, leaping to the ladder and scurrying up into the ceiling. In the dark, glass shatters, electricity sparks and crackles, and in a split second, the hatch to the floor above bursts open and Sera’s gone. A moment later — and the disconcerting percussion of bodies slumping to the ground reaching his ears — Her crazed eyes peer back down into the shaft, staring past her choppy bangs, and she laughs out “Six of em and they-they didn’t even see me! Pfft, hehehe, just come on, yeah?”

As the three ascend, reaching the next level, they find six dead, just as she claimed, arrows to the back of their heads. Strange sight though — they’re all sweaty and naked — and Sera can barely contain herself. 

“Too busy, these ones, hehehehe,” Sera can’t help herself while retrieving arrows, “Sure, I put one in them but they were putting, pfffft, ahhehe.”

“Huh, not a bad way to die,” Bull hums to himself, admiring the scene before creeping to the door, snuffing the the wall torch, and peering out…

“How many?,” Geralt asks.

“Hmm, none on this floor. Looks like there’s movement up top though…”

“So we peg them hard and fast!” Sera says most eagerly, ready to take on more bandits, “It’s good, innit?”

“I’m not… pegging anyone,” Geralt grumbles to Sera and Bull’s amusement, “Just… just move,” and out they go, hurrying across the open rise through the sheets of rain to the covered stairs ahead, racing to get to the top before their archers take notice. One yells out in warning but it’s all too late, the high ground is lost as the four mow down the limited enemy forces.

At the far end, it’s then a door to the highest part gets swung open, a huge brute of a man groggily stomping on out, soggy and dragging an axe as he yells “Oo the fuck is makin’ all that noise?! Tryin’ to get some damn sle-“ but he stops when he sees the intruders. Eyes narrowing, reacting to the rude awakening, he spits “The fuck is this? That pissant mayor hire you? I’m gonna flay you and then take my time chopping them int-“ but Sera’s already loosed an explosive arrow, blowing the big bastard into the wall with concussive force. Not waiting to make it a fair fight, Bull drops his axe and goes sprinting at the man, grabbing his ankles before he can get a grip on the situation.

With a roaring “YYYYYYYYEEAAAAAAH,” Bull straight up yeets the bandit leader over the ledge to the landing far below where he unceremoniously dashes his brains all upon the stones. “Huh, that uh… worked out pretty damn great,” the Qunari hums pleasantly, somewhat surprised by the results.

“Time for a payday, yeah?,” Sera posits while stealing a few choice arrows from the quivers of dead bandits, “We get a few merchants up in here, her Inquisitorialness might even be pleased. Have a proper house.”

“Walls and walls, hiding and holding, hard to breathe, harder to feel,” Cole absently mutters while trading his bloody daggers for some clean ones of yet another dead bandit before pointing out “That door down there might lead to the dam.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was wondering,” Geralt grunts.

“I know. That’s why I said it,” Cole comments.

**______**

  
“Why would the mayor say the controls were broken?,” Geralt growls in question as they leave the wheelhouse, the roar of floodwaters nearly drowning out his ask.

“Whatever it is, it stinks like fish and… fish,” Sera comments.

“His shame had that sha-“ Cole goes to say but Iron Bull starts shouting “Shutupshutupshutup! Oh my god. Look at her!” just as a pissed off dragon goes tearing by overhead, screeching lightning at the darkened sky in a fit of rage. It banks left, doubles back, and goes soaring for some stone ruins in the distance, barely visible in this haze and overcast. “Please tell me we can fight her!”

“Uhhh,” Geralt groans, not enthused in the slightest.

“DIBS!,” Sera shouts and goes running off down the bridge to the rocky cliffs ahead, anything to catch up with the great winged beast but Bull takes off sprinting after her, yelling “YOU CAN’T CALL DIBS ON A-“

“SHUT IT, YES I CAN!,” she cackles maniacally back at him, “SAW HER, CALLED HER!”

“DAAAAAAMN IT!,” he roars back as he runs through the heavy rain.

The thing is raging though, attacking blindly. Firing lightning at a hill, unstable to say the least. Geralt peers over the dam’s edge, staring down to the roaring waters filling the basin below…

“Did we kill her nest?,” he asks himself aloud.

“I don’t know,” Cole answers, “She isn’t making sense.”

“Damn it,” Geralt sighs out under his breath before taking off running to the fray. By the time he gets there, Bull is already hacking at its ankles and Sera is perched on a column, firing arrow after carefully aimed arrow, trying for its eyes.

The air is charged with static, a more dangerous playing field attracting the ire of the storm above. Yelling over the rain and winds, in between the dragon’s screeches, Geralt begs the question “ARE. THEY. INTELLIGENT. CREATURES?”

Already attacking its ankles, his loose pants tenting, he roars back “THEY. ARE. GLORIOUS!”

Closing his eyes to rid the image from his mind, Geralt specifies “CAN. THEY. TALK? REASON?”

Significantly closer on her perch, Geralt can hear Sera scoffs “Pofff, this one? Can u imagine? A talking dragon?”

“They don’t speak?”

Sera, clearly thinking him an idiot answers “Pbbb, not like people people” before loosing another volley of arrows at the furious creature, doing her best to avoid sticking Bull.

“Fine,” is Geralt’s answer to himself as he unstraps his drakestone longsword. Tossing the sheath you the ground, he goes death marching toward the winged leviathan, its mouth crackling with literal lightning.  
  
Sera squeaks in surprise as a bolt arcs past her, splitting a tree, but she ducks and lets off a another volley of arrows. Though Bull is trying — and missing more often than not — to attack the dragon’s ankles, its smart enough to keep an eye on all three opponents, screaming electricity that screams in kind as it arcs off trees and stones, shocking the wet in the air about them and scorching the rest.

Quen. Electricity ricochets off the side.

Sprint and slide, another blast goes tearing past.

Quen, a glancing blow that shatters stone. 

Furious but learning, wise to the tricks now, the beast bellows lightning at the earth itself, the storm drenched ground positively cooking and burning with the discharge. Geralt leaps onto a downed pillar to avoid the damage but Bull dropped his axe and clings to the beast’s hind leg for dear life, roaring “YYYYYYEEEAAAAAAAAH” in excitement.

Swinging wide, the Northern Hunter brings its tail around and whips it at the white wolf but he jumps, stabbing at the appendage and scaling the damn thing as it rages. Another loosed arrow from afar, Sera shouts “EAT IT” in the distance before blurring across the field, dripping with electricity herself and broken glass, and firing another shot, just moving wherever she can to peg the dragon in the eyes.

Geralt’s almost to the neck, running the spine when suddenly the beast twists hard, throwing both the Witcher and The Bull…

Ravenous, snapping jaws gulp Geralt down whole, down a squelching throat with him struggling, punching and elbowing the glands that charge the creature’s attacks — he slithers down into the wet dark, the esophagus dragging him with every contraction…

“Aghh. You. Stink,” Geralt gasps at the rank plumes of rotting sheep and bile before shoving his knees into the sides, stopping his downward digestion. Loud to the point of bleeding ears, the dragon screeches its discontent as the muffled sound of attacks buffet off its scaly hide…

Angrily breathing through his mouth and coated in slick, his new sword somewhere outside the dragon, he shifts about until he’s got his silver free and holding tight, aims the point away, driving deep. Again, a bleeding ear cacophony but this time mixed with a gurgling yelp, not a mighty roar. Though the air crackles — even in here as it tries to spit lightning — Geralt pushes harder, through the muscle and soft tissue, upward through the hide until he feels it give. With a harsh twist, putting his strength into it, he saws the damn thing a quarter open as thick blood fills the throat….

With a crash, the body shudders. Impact. 

Another harsh twist, he’s got an exit and he’s sloshing out the yawning hole of a killing blow to the drenched grass and mud without. Gingerly rising, using the corpse for support, Geralt spits dragon blood from his mouth and growls out a throaty “Fuck.”

Idrilla and Solas both gape at the sight from upon a nearby hill, having shown up late to this particular party, their staves’ battle energies faltering. 

Varric and Cassandra both, they look on in utter disgust at the man drenched in dark viscera.

Blackwall, he’s harder to read.

Impressed? Horrified? Whatever he is, he slowly walks over and pats the dragon’s corpse, still not believing it dead.

Sera let’s out a quick snicker of an “Ew-hehehehe-hewww” as she hops down but Bull — clearly having taken the tail to the face — bruised as he is, he comes bounding up, booming “I FUCKING LOVE THIS GUY!” and scoops the Witcher up, raising him up to show off the gore covered hunter like the prize he is. Swatting at the great man’s shoulders, grimacing, wincing, Geralt grunts “Put me down. Down. Now. Put me down” until the Bull, sticky with dragon gore himself now, complies, still beaming like kid with candy.

“Oh we are getting drunk tonight,” the horned man rumbles out in promise, in threat, and claps Geralt hard across the back, lurching the hunter forward and grunting in response.

“Y-you… just… how?,” Idrilla still tries to process, “You got all up…inside… an’ whit?”

“Ahem… Well, it certainly made for an effective course of action… if not unorthodox,” Solas finally clears his throat.

‘ _Damn,_ ’ Geralt thinks to himself in regret as rain beats upon his viscera and bile coated form, ‘ _it shouldn’t have happened like this. Sloppy. Rushed. Should have investigated the area more thoroughly…_ ’  
Everyone else seems to be in awe or beside themselves in excitement. Not Geralt though; this dragon may not have been the species of his world, but it’s death stings all the same. 

No dragons unless absolutely necessary. 

...his personal code. 

“He’s sorry,” he overhears Cole whispering to the giant scaled corpse laying in the muddy, clawed up earth, “I know it doesn’t help now. You’re dead.”

“Boy… Cole was it?,” Blackwall asks, his brow furrowing all the harder in concern, “I’m fairly certain the dead dragon doesn’t need — or want — an apology.” Then realizing something crucial, likely that he’s talking to a boy far beyond the norm, Blackwall backtracks that statement, instead puzzling “Wait. It is dead, right? It’s not going to.. haunt us?”

“Yes. It won’t. It will be slow but she’s gone now.”

“Egh, nope. This is weird. You’re strange.”

“Yes?”

Shouting out the group so all may hear, distancing himself some from Cole, Blackwall asks “Can we just finish this already? The lake rift? Please?” and wrings out his beard.

**______**

“I have a query. No, a concern,” Cassandra groans as they descend into the old tunnels, having fought their way through the wandering dead of Old Crestwood, “Is The Iron Bull… is he…ugh, sexually attracted to dragons?” 

“Because of the… well…you know?,” Blackwall asks back, careful of his footing in the dark as water trickles under heel.

“He had it even after the dragon was put down,” Cass complains, the image of it and its pendulous sway still unfortunately fresh in their minds, “I can appreciate him staying behind to clean and quarter the creature — it will make for good provisions and crafting gear — but his eagerness is unsettling.”

“Maybe it’s a Qunari thing?,” the grizzled veteran offers while sliding past several stalagmites, “Maybe it’s a cultural thing? I don’t know. I’m just pissing in the wind here.”

“You had better not be!,” Cassandra fires back.

“Of course I’m not, it’s just an expr… oh, you’re messing with me.”

She huffs, her smirk almost audible.

“Ow,” Cole suddenly winces on this spiral descent, gripping at the rickety railing for support, his thin knees buckling.

“Hey, kid, you alright?,” Varric asks, a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“This rift hurts; There’s a lot of pain. Twisting, drowning, filling, sinking, old eyes seeing the young float but not for long. They cant breathe the water — they aren’t fish.”

“I uh… geez, kid. That sounded grim.”

“What in the Maker’s name is he talking about now?,” Blackwall frowns out, his hesitation forcing him to clutch his sword grip.

“I… can’t be here. I’m sorry,” Cole apologizes and vanishes before anyone can say otherwise, Varric still holding his hand out where a shoulder just was, a touch of sadness finds his face.

But they can’t linger here, not with that Rift open, not with the boundless spirits taking up residence in the forgotten dead and shambling from the murky depths to attack with reckless abandon.

They press onward and downward, them the unlucky six.

Into the winding darkness, these water laden caves, their footsteps splashing and all but announcing their presence…

Unasked, Solas mutters to himself “It really is a shame.”

“What is?” Varric questions while sidestepping down some water logged planks, trying his damnedest not to slip and fall to his death. 

“Hm? Oh, that the rifts, though they act as partial doorways, twist the spirits as they do, causing them such pain…”

Easing past what is hopefully a large rat given the size of the wet and crumbling bones, Varric grumbles “Oh. Thought you were talking about… never mind” with a grimace of remorse.

“Quiet,” Inquisitor Lavellan throws her hands back at the group as the sound of wrathful screams echo from deeper in the caves, “There’s something up ahead.” Crouching down, her hunter instincts kicking in, she grips tightly to her staff, her unmarked hand hovering over her hip where she tucks her thin blade.

“Considering what we’ve dealt with, it’s most likely a demon,” Cassandra sighs with an odd mix of boredom and contempt, “We are under a rift. It only makes sense.”

“It’s big,” Idrilla whispers in a hush, refusing to let her voice carry any farther.

There’s the sound of steel and iron gliding free, unsheathing, and the muted jostling of armor and leather, the warriors readying up for whatever awaits….

Varric’s Bianca twinges, her firing mechanism taut and eager to sting…

Solas though, he merely steps with more consideration, his bare feet slinking beneath the now knee deep waters pooling in the tunnels. 

On ahead, the orange and yellows of a well tended fire, its bonfire light illuminating what appear to be no simple cave wall, but the ruins of something grander. Though the wall mounted torches have been long drowned, they serve no purpose now, this light, its doing enough... 

But then it moves on its own.

“ **RAGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhh** ,” it screams in hate before a wave of steam hisses off it, flecks of magma quite literally dripping from the burning coals of its eyes. Rage, bigger than any one before it, more furious than the most incensed of sorceresses or djinns, this boiling monstrosity roses high, its molten scalp scorching the high ceilings above. Confused, no where to go, it roars at the very waters engulfing what counts for its legs, that slug tail of a lower body.

Quietly, leaning in to express her professional insights on this, Cassandra draws the others close as she says “For a monstrosity such as this, we need a definitive course of action, and I believe I have just the plan. Witcher, you are quicker than you appear; distract it. Solas, Inquisitor, if you could both cast ice spe-“

“Ahem. Uh, not my best element,” Idrilla interrupts to admit, somewhat embarrassed, “But I can try manipulating th’ water already here.”

“And I can make up for whatever she lacks,” Solas provides, but shrugs Idrilla’s way when he realizes how condescending he sounded.

“It will have to do,” Cassandra continues, “Blackwall and…ugh, Varric, you both will guard me as I make preparations.”

“Very well,” Blackwall agrees, shifting his shield, but Varric puzzles “You sure you trust me for this?”

“Varric,” she groans, irritated.

“Yeah, yeah. Can’t say I never did anything for you,” he remarks, swapping an explosive bolt for a concussive one, “And you still owe me.”

“Maker. Give me strength,” she prays. Whether it’s for her own benefit or the dwarf’s, it’s difficult to tell, but kneeling in the waters, submerged to her middle, Cassandra clutches at her sword and begins whispering under her breath to its hilt as a glint of pale blue takes to her eyes. 

“I may be mistaken but I believe that’s our cue t-“ Solas starts to address but Idrilla barks “GO!” and Geralt takes off, noisily sloshing and splashing past the giant blob of fury and hate, drawing Rage’s seething look. As Geralt takes to distracting per the plan, yelling “Hey! Ugly! Over here!” to keep its attention on him, Solas seems to fold the very air around the flaming creature, performing calculated steps in time with his casting, doing what he can to suffocate it. Lavellan meanwhile, in a style different from any mage he’s seen so far in Thedas, she swishes her iron staff’s foci through the pools like she’s stirring a stew but whatever it is she’s doing, it’s affecting the demon. Wave after breaking wave seems to find the Great Rage, a circling torrent rushing about it, trapping it as the cold and wet agonizes its vengeful fire.

“…in your name,” is all Geralt catches of the tail end of Cassandra’s prayer before that pale spark ignites along her sword in the dark. In the very next instant, a blinding pillar of light punches down at Rage from nowhere, vaporizing the now pitiful creature and finishing with an almost comical ploop sound as water rushes in to fill the empty void, its ashes becoming mud. The ornately carved chamber falls to darkness once more save for the scattered flickering of eerie green from Idrilla’s marked hand.   
  
Oddly, there’s a rather floral scent in the air, pushing away the dank and cold. Rose water perhaps? Lingering effect of her... whatever that was?

With a whistle in the inconsistent dark, Varric gravels “So that’s what a Seeker can do. Speaking of, what the heck was that?”

“Embracing the Light,” she sighs while rising from the water, Blackwall offering her a hand, “Through prayer and focus, even a Templar initiate may invoke such holy power.”

“Still though, never seen a Templar one-shot a demon like that,” Varric adds, “Hell, doubt Commander Curly could even do that.”

“He _could_ ,” she answers flatly, “He has the training and faith.”

‘ _Could. Past tense?_ ,’ Geralt thinks to himself while eyeing both the Seeker and the muddy waters that were formerly Rage.

“Look, tha’s fine an’ all but can we just find th’ rift?,” Idrilla winces as her mark flares up, “It’s near.”

Silent agreement, the six continue sloshing onward in the murk waters of these once flooded halls, following in the Elven Inquisitor’s wake, the crackling surges of the anchor guiding her. Some twists and turns, everyone on edge — no telling what could be swimming in the shallows around their ankles — after passing some stone tables and chairs, they finally come upon a smaller doorway, through which the angry green glow of an enormous rift churns and pulsates in the cavernous ceiling above. 

An underground island in the waters, slabs of stone and pillars supporting the room, the gaping maw to the Fade reacts, spitting Envies and Despairs and Horrors to its shores.

And Idrilla’s hand goes off, alerting the demons.

They rush the door.

It bottlenecks them

Easy killing, wave after wave throwing themselves against silver and steel, magic and shields only to get jammed up and slain. Less impressive than the Great Rage before, their weaker bodies break down, bits and wisps breaking off, dissipating in the air like a swarm of gnats meeting a strong gust of wind…

Her hand reacts, Fade energies arcing up her wrist and down her fingers, she paces in, aiming to the tear, readying to seal it until Blackwall lunges forward, grabbing her arm and hauling her back.

“You can’t! Look at that” he points out the lake water churning and twisting around the rift from above, defying the laws known nature, “You close this rift and we’ll all be having a deep drink.”

“Uh, if I die underground, I lose a bet,” Varric feels the need to make known, clearly anxious by the location and circumstances, holding down the doorway with the crossbow Bianca firmly in hand. 

“Ugh,” Cassandra groans, “Maker, what do we do?!”

Not waiting for them to conceive a plan, Geralt takes to improvising his own. Leaving the room, investigating the great slab of a stone table against the nearby wall they had passed, he looks it over for structural weaknesses. Cracks, erosion, anything that could have it give way, there’s none apparent to his cat eyes, and then a faint light, Solas is beside him asking “What is it you are searching for?”

“How far away can she be from the rift and still seal it?”

“I would argue that it depends upon the rift,” Solas answers, “Tell me your thoughts.”

“It’s hard to say if it would even work…”

“Whatever it is, I’m inclined to believe it a better plan than the one we do not even have.” 

“Congratulations, you’ve found a table,” Varric irritably mocks from his posting, the water level about stomach deep for someone of his short stature, “What now? Haul it back to Orzammar? Sell it to the merchant’s guild?”

“No,” Geralt chides, “Tie a rope around the girl; she seals the rift from as close to the doorway as she can be. Before the lake can crush and drown us, Cassandra and Blackbeard-“

“Blackwall.”

“Hm. Those two yank Idrilla back through the entryway while you,” Geralt tells Solas,” use your magic to move the table, cover the entry. I’ll cast a sign to lock it in place and then we run.”

“Holy shit,” Varric sighs, “…I’m gonna lose that bet,” not a hint of a joke in his tone. Solas, he hurries to inform the three under the rift of the plan’s potential and in no time, they’re tying off Idrilla and reeling in the slack.

Apparently they had nothing better.

Solas, the foci of his simple staff igniting with cool teal, he rips the table from its supports, floating it across and holding it in place above the entrance, straining but ready to drop it like a guillotine.

“An’ this will work?,” the Elven waif questions, trepidatious for sure. Geralt though, ever the optimist, he answers “No clue.”

“I hate this,” she whispers, “I hate this so much,” and throws her marked hand forward, magical lightning bridging the gap between her and the rift, the connection charging with a deafening buzz.

“Oh, Falon’din, don’t take me this day.”

With a tremendous boom, the rift claps shut and the lake comes bursting down into the cavern. The two warriors haul Idrilla past the threshold as quickly as they can and without wasting a moment, Solas slams the slab into place just as Geralt draws an hourglass upon its surface. A purple glow, there and gone, the only indicator of success he’s willing to wait for, Geralt goes sprinting while barking “RUN!” and all flee for their lives as the flood waters pound and rage against their temporary dam.

Sloshing, slogging, doing everything in their power to flee, they make it a third of the way back up the mine shafts before a terrible crack echoes down behind them and the entire underground roars like a horde of dragons giving chase in the pitch black.

But they don’t stop running.

Can’t stop.

They race until they see the twilight of dusk filtering in through the wet mouth of the caves.

The lake won’t reach them here, they won’t be drowning this day.

Panting and gasping for precious air, muscles burning, they’re outside in the ruins of Old Crestwood for but a minute before a spectral human nervous system floats into their path, demanding their attention with a “ **You there** ” directed at Idrilla.  
  
Huffing, unable to catch her breath, she gawks at the spirit but clutches her staff, ready — it pushed — to fight.

“ **You did away with that vile offense. You did as I commanded and I may finally take my leave of this horrid plane** ,” it states most loudly, needing to be heard, and then fading from existence. 

“I? Huh? Whit…whit just happened?,” Idrilla questions, evidently as confused by the sudden appearance and departure of this spirit as everyone else, “Did… did I agree ta something? Whit even was tha’?”

”I believe it was a spirit of Command,” Solas offers, a bit lost by the exchange as well, “Perhaps... perhaps you subconsciously answered Its call to action? Or agreed to it in a dream?”

“Never met tha’ thing before in my life.”

Whatever just happened, at the very least, it’s not raining anymore…

**______**

Recouping for the night in the keep they just taken back from the bandits — evidently named Caer Bronach if what Varric read is accurate — Geralt sits in his small clothes at a table as his gear dries outside, the bile, blood, and lake water scrubbed off but an hour earlier. Everything sits outside, slung over a tanning rack, everything except his supply satchel and swords. Those particular exemptions lie propped in the room corner.

Dealing cards and also in his small clothes, Varric casually curses “Andraste’s ass, sure, I miss getting eaten by a dragon but then I almost drown,” his mane of golden chest hair still damp and plastered to his body. “Talk about a health hazard,” he adds.

No beard. Lots of chest hair. Odd for a dwarf.

“You really did miss out, Varric,” Bull comments, “A Northern Hunter. What a beauty...”

“It was… unfortunate,” Geralt grunts modestly into his hand of cards but Bull smacks the table, shouting “The fuck it was! It was god damn beautiful. Imagine it — you think he’s dead, soon-to-be dragon shit but no, a sword shoves through the back of the neck and this bastard saws his way out! Mmmm.”

“Oi, big guy, calm down,” Sera advises and tosses her cards to the table, “No redheads around here and we all see wut ur sporting.”

“Oh,” Bull actually blushes and shifts in his seat, “Damn. You’re right. Guess it’s just me, myself, and I tonight.”

“Wut? You sex ur eye? How’s that even work.”

“Sera…,” the big guy groans, “Obviously that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Pfft, good. Pretty gross if u were.”

“Actually, that’s a perfectly loaded topic.”

“Wut?”

“Best, worst, or weirdest lay you’ve ever had. Choose one. No names, not looking to invade anyone’s privacy. Just want to know the broad strokes,” Bull rumbles out in suggestion, keeping his own cards close to his chest as Sera snorts “strokes.”

“I’ll go first,” Bull smugly states, “so, in order… three redheads at once. A human, a dwarf, and an elf.”

Varric’s chuckling and Sera’s got a look of awe on her face, mumbling “lucky boy, u, getting in on an everyone orgy.” Raising his hands in surrender but keep his cards hidden, Varric kindly says “Sorry, but even though I’ve got one that checks all three boxes, I’m not at liberty to discuss it. Public admission would result in no fewer than five deaths and a few major shifts, for the worse, within the guild.”

“Pfft, brag much,” Sera pokes at the dwarf before saying “The best ones are weird. What’s strange without strange?”

“Maker, Sera.”

“Well, yeah,” she continues, “That’s what this noble lady was saying when I was done with her. Don’t usually like those sorts but it did feel good to knock her down a peg,” but then with a snicker, she repeats “hehehehe, peg.”

“Nice,” Bull winks — blinks — at her. Hard to tell given the eye patch. But he throws down his hand, intentionally revealing his stack of kings and threes, daring Varric and the Witcher with “And there’s no way either of you are winning.”

“Are you kidding?” Varric protests, a victorious smile wide upon his face, “You can’t bluff now!”

“Are. You. Sure?,” Bull beams back.

“Bahh,” Varric gives up on trying to argue and folds. Little man must’ve had a poor hand to give up like that.

“Thank you,” Bull hums before turning his attention to Geralt who’s still reviewing his own cards, urging “Your turn.”

“Hm. I’ve got a few weirds,” Geralt growls in consideration before Sera actually says “Cough-Not surprised-Cough.” Actually smirking because of her comment — he can’t help but realize she’s right — Geralt slowly reveals “Hm. There was once a sorceress. When she climaxed, it knocked down the house around us..”

Sera is just wide eyed, shaking her head in awe. Varric, he narrows his eyes, in evident disbelief. Bull though, he almost chokes out his “WH-hat?!,” his drink dribbling down his chin.

“Mhm.”

“Oi, u said weirds. Like more than one. Give us a another, yeah?, “Sera demands with a grin.

“…No.”

“Yes,” the room urges.

“Hm.”

“You’ve gotta give us something else!,” Bull challenges, slamming his empty to the table.

Sighing, not particularly enjoying the thought of admitting this one, he reticently does so anyway. This lot, they’ll pester him until her does regardless. So, with a growl, Geralt admits “There.. was an elf…”

“Pfft, boring!,” Sera shoots off.

“…Well, she was an elf until my wolf medallion touched her. The silver affected. Turned out she was Doppler and now she’s pissed off, decided to transform into me…”

“Fuck you,” Bull chuckles and Sera spits out her wine.

“Hold up,” Varric requests an explanation, “Doppler? What’s that exactly?”

“Shapeshifter.”

“I can’t tell if that should scare the shit out of me or give me ideas. Ideas. Mostly ideas,” Sera mutters but Bull boisterously proclaims “Ideas. Lots of them. All of them!” in agreement.

“Gotta remember that one,” Varric mumbles to himself, looking for something to write with, “And they’re what? Mages?”

“Magical creatures.”

“These are great!,” Bull laughs, “Please tell me you’ve got one more you’re willing to share.”

“Hmmm.”

“Last one, I swear upon my mother I’ll never ask again,” Bull pleads but Varric coughs “What was that shit you told me about Qunari not knowing their parents then?”

“Egh. Fine,” Geralt groans, weary, talking more about himself than he’s done in years, “…I was investigating a string of murders in a city and ended up confronting a succubus.”

“A what?” Varric begins to question but Bull silences him, shushing “Just let him finish.” Sera is trying not to spit more drink, choking out a tiny “Pfft, succubutt.”

“Turns out it wasn’t her doing the killing, but a possessive lover of hers. In the end, she and I …well…”

“Okay, that didn’t sound weird. I’m guessing the weird part is this succubus?”

“Hm, right. They’re basically women who use magic to seduce. Horns and hooved feet, they feed off sexual energy… uhh, you’ve got to explain the rules again,” Geralt groans, folding his hand, “I only know one card game and it isn’t this.”

“Oh, dear Andraste, wife of the Maker and symbol of the faith, forgive this simple sinner for not knowing Wicked Grace,” Varric corrects, feigning offense with his hand over his heart, “He knows not just how he blasphemes,” before cracking a smirk. “Seriously, you’ve been here for months. You should know the game by now.”

“Wait. That’s all? They eat sex?,” Sera considers, let down perhaps, “Don’t get me wrong, sounds fun? Just thought there’d be more wow but it’s all good, innit?”

“..Hm. Between being jailed and hunting demons, I haven’t had a great deal of free time.”

“Look, the key is bluffing. Simple,” Bull explains but takes Geralt’s face into consideration, saying “You’ve already got the advantage on-“ but the door swings open with Cassandra announcing “I’ve sent a raven to Skyhold for…” and only realizing the Inquisitor isn’t in here, she groans “Ugh. Where is she?”

After a collective shrug of ignorance from the room, Cassandra sighs “Of course that’s the case. Never where she should be…” but before she takes her leave, she feels it necessary to inform “Oh, Crestwood’s mayor is currently bound and gagged in the storeroom — Lady Vivienne caught him sneaking out some hours ago — for obvious reasons, ignore his pleas.”

As the door clicks shut on their little gambling den, realizing the hour, Geralt grunts “I’m out” and tosses his cards. 

He’s not learning the rules tonight; he knows that for certain. 

He’s tired.

His bones ache.

Today has been a long one.

He’s certain he’s going to hear some protest, an argue to stay and play or drink but no one gives voice. Must have that particular doom and gloom look on that Jaskier would chastise him for. It’s probably a good thing this time around, they’ve got to get an early start come morning. At the very least, there’s beds and cots to crash in in the meantime.


	19. Chapter 19

Leaving Caer Bronach before dawn, they left the keep in the very capable hands of Scout Harding and her compatriots. The dragon corpse on the cliffs behind it had been mostly harvested by then, some of the townsfolk even pitching in on the promise of coin from future sale or a portion of the meat as food.

Good deal.

The few hours marching North had been far less pleasant, running afoul of several roving feral Templar groups. Though they’d exhibited similar crystal growths and veining as those that marched on Haven, they were few enough in number to be dispatched with relative swiftness.

...but the skirmishes _did_ put them behind schedule and it wasn’t until nightfall that they’d reached the desolate land of West Hill and its fortress long since abandoned and overgrown with weeds, a veritable ghost town. Just as Lady Josephine had promised, in the remnants of the harbor sat moored the Broken Crest, an unassuming vessel, not flying any colors.

“You’re late,” a sun-burned seaman grunts in complaint as they reach the gangplank, “Captain is none too pleased.”

“We apologize for our tardiness,” Cassandra tries to appease while fishing the promissory notes of credit from her pouch, “We were attacked by Templ-“

“The tides don’t give a shit,” the man snaps back and snatches the papers, roughly stuffing them in his overcoat’s inner pocket, “Well? Why aren’t you onboard already?”

“How charming,” Lady Vivienne utters with a honeyed tone and narrowing eyes as Cassandra shoves down her urge to punch the man. He may be an asshole but he’s right and she knows that. There’s a schedule to keep.

“Ugh,” Bull grunts softly, “This… god damn boats.”

“Ha,” Solas needlessly laughs, mocking the Qunari, “I thought your people used to sailing. After all, is that not how you came to Thedas?”

“Look, laugh all you want but a dreadnought is top notch engineering. You don’t even feel the waves.”

“Wouldn’t that be something,” Geralt rasps from behind them both, somewhat incredulous that such a ship could exist despite the fact he’s seen far more bizarre happenings in his lifetime. Immortal crones, harpy fetishists, and megascopes, are but a few such things but the point is moot.

As they board, from up on the helm of the ship comes sauntering down a rather gaunt man, wisps of blond beard hairs on his face where a beard can’t seem to grow. He’s missing an eye and two fingers on his right but he carries himself well enough, not missing a step or clutch on the railing. His first mate apparent passes him the notes and he announces “MAKE SAIL!,” his sunburned first parroting him with gusto to urge on the crew.

“Raise the gangplank! Release the lines! Unfurl the sails!” his first continues on yelling as the captain zeroes in on the Inquisition, gruffly stating “Late.”

“Yes, I already apologized f-“ Cassandra tries to say but the thin man talks over her, saying “I’m Captain Braller. On this ship, what I say, goes. Don’t like it? Feel free to step off.”

“But we’ll get wet,” Cole argues softly with Varric leaning in to say “Yeah. That’s kinda the point, kid.”

**______**

In the hours since, it’s been smooth sailing by moonlight, riding the trade winds West with the hope that they should make port by morning.

Geralt would — should — sleep but sailing has never been an easy endeavor in his experience. There’s always a siren, a storm, a merperson or sea witch and because of this, Geralt stays topside against the starboard railing, observing the Waking Sea for telltale signs of danger, his ears trained for threats…

Lightning off dark clouds blowing in.

A wake where there shouldn’t be one.

Tearful cries.

A scream.

But nothing of the sort has happened.

These aren’t the waters off Skellige. This really just might be the easiest voyage he’s ever made. ‘ _Don’t jinx it,’_ he reminds himself and raps his knuckles on the wooden railing for good luck just in case. Settling in and out of the way, he tucks himself into the nook under the stairs, claiming the only place on deck that he won’t be in the way…

**______**

Fire and smoke, a flood of bodies, the majority humans attacking the minority, the nonhumans. In the middle of it all, dripping the blood of countless humans downed from his swift attacks, as fearsome a sight as the grim reaper itself, Geralt bares down on a young lad but the boy cries “MERCY!” while flinching, shying from the fray with trembling fingers.

The Witcher’s sword hangs in the air with Jaskier begging him to stop. The bard has only a broom as a weapon.

_He’s right. This has gone too far._

Hot agony. Iron sliding through vitals.

_How didn’t I see this coming!?_

Impaled. Stunned that this fearful welp before him is to blame.

 _‘Jaskier. You… fuck,’_ is all Geralt can think as he lets escape a cry of pain and lurches on his feet, unbalanced, and collapses. Terrified by what he’d done, the boy let’s go, leaving the farm tool stuck in the Witcher as he bleeds out in the streets. People running past him — humans — fleeing for their lives now as the tides inexplicably turn. Yarpen, Zoltan, and a few other dwarves come racing against the crowds to his side…

He wants to scream, to yell at them to leave him be, to get to safety…

He wants to but blood fills his throat…

Black clouds suddenly smother the sky…

Hailstones crash and pummel the city streets, battering and bludgeoning the riotous crowds…

“Geralt!” cries a familiar woman’s voice and his head is cradled. It sounds so distant but lying in a pool of his own blood, he forces his eyes open and finds his daughter, Yen, and Triss all kneeling in the red. He wants to talk, to say anything, a goodbye, but instead he coughs and spits up blood. Yen moves to perform some magic — bruised and bleeding as she is — but Jaskier grabs her before she can collapse.

Weak.

Injured.

“It won’t work,” utters Ciri in despair, “Your magic cannot cure him, Yennefer.”

“We arrived… t-to late,” Yen barely manages to whisper, her lips shaky, and Ciri repeats “Your magic won’t work” as if the raven-haired sorceress hadn’t heard. “Is that all it is worth, your magic?!,” his daughter pleads.

“We sent for a physician?,” one of the dwarves tries to calm from Jaskier’s side but Triss answers cooly, quietly, “It is too late for a doctor. He is dying.”

A violent cough shakes the Witcher, blood expectorating from his mouth, but then tensing, the thin black veil of unconsciousness taking him as he falls still, the only thing his dying mind processing is the…

The ships rocks unexpectedly, the wind shifting, and Geralt slams his head against the wood walling behind him. Jolted awake, grumpy, he grunts and peels open an eye to find the early morning light as he rubs at the back of his skull.

“You died?,” Cole’s voice comes from seemingly nowhere before the awkward lad chooses to be seen, “I’m sorry. That was painful.”

His hand rests on his stomach, the scars of experience just underneath his cotton shirt, and he grunts “Don’t know. And yes, it was definitely that.”

“But you’re alive? That’s good.”

Though the memory, that dream, shook him — it’s one that frequently finds him — but even as horrible as it was, he caught a glimpse of the family he left behind. That’s something as least, to see them so clearly. Grunting and picking himself off the deck, gripping the railing to look outward, he tries to avoid meeting the odd boy’s gaze but Cole changes subjects, saying instead “You miss them.”

“…yes.”

“The dark haired one is nice?”

Unsure why the boy would ask that, Geralt snorts “Only sometimes.” He’s somewhat adjusting to Cole’s _insight_. But with the padding of bare feet on wood, the boards barely giving any creak, Solas happens by having noticed the two and feels fit to comment “Curious. Are spirits often drawn to you? Cole certainly seems to enjoy your company.”

Geralt shrugs noncommittally but Cole says “It’s less busy, confusing. He doesn’t have two conversations at the same time.”

“You mean he isn’t contradictory, Cole?”

“Yes?”

“Congratulations, Ser Witcher, it’s no small matter to impress a spirit of Compassion. And don’t misunderstand, he means no offense. True, most have a war waging within themselves, their thoughts battling their spoken word, but you evidently possess a certain introspection, a powerful and useful skill that most unfortunately lack.”

Geralt grunts “Like to say it comes from being old.”

“As someone who has viewed the ages in my sleep, trust me when I say,” Solas softly but sternly argues, “Age does not always equate to wisdom or sincerity.”

“If you say so.”

“I know so.”

“Then isn’t it you who deserves congratulations?,” Geralt flippantly questions and amused, Solas gives a small nod of acknowledgement and pads away across the deck, passing Idrilla just as she too comes topside with the Seeker refusing to leave her side to the obvious irritation of the lady elf.

“Inquisitor, we need to discuss-“

“Please just give me a damn minute ta myself,” the marked girl fires back, furiously grinding her thumb against her temple to likely stave off some impending migraine.

“You’ve been ignoring the-“

“Just a damn… Wait,” Idrilla pauses, ears twitching, squints East toward the dawn sun, and leaning past the port railing to better look, “Whit’s tha’ over there?”

“I advise you against looking directly into the sun. You will certainly burn your e-“

“Tha’ a ship?,” the Inquisitor questions, “er ships?” to the alarm of several crewman on deck. Shortly after, the crows nest shouts out “THREE, CAPTAIN! FAST APPROACHING. FLYING NO FLAGS.”

“RAIDERS,” Captain Braller barks out at his men and the First Mate wails on a bell, sounding the all hands. Rigging lets loose and the sails unfurl in full, grabbing the most of the wind that they can and the ship lurches in response, heaving forward. Soon enough, most the crew and all the Inquisition are topside on alert. “WE’LL GIVE EM THE SWEEPS!,” roars Braller and the message barks from crewman to crewman and down below deck where the scraping of heavy metal is soon heard amongst muffled shouting. Cannons rear their ugly mouths through the portholes of the Broken Crest.

The time for battle on the high seas is nigh

Anticipation is palpable.

As the hour passes, the enemy ships draw ever closer as the sun creeps higher, no longer casting them as silhouettes.

Uneasy being prey.

Everyone is at the ready.

The shadow of the three catches up to the Broken Crest

They hang back on the flanks just enough to be out of cannons’ reach.

Grappling hooks claw at the vessel’s aft, anchoring the four together but even as the crew hacks at ropes, more come flying in and holding fast to the rigging and railing.

“DROP ANCHOR,” Braller insanely demands in a desperate bid to have the enemy get within range, “FIRE,” and the cacophony of cannon spitting hot iron roars as wood splinters and ships groan. The third rams the back end, the shock of it spinning the Broken Crest, killing all her momentum and tangling her up in the dead center of the fight. Bad plan, dumb intentions. Raiders hop the railing, boarding with blades raised, tossing smoke grenades. As the acrid fog of burning blackpowder and sharp clanging of steel reach their pitch, Geralt may be the only the one to stow his own weapons…

Arrows whiz.

Daggers stab.

...Unperturbed by the smoke, his vision merely hazy, he finds it a simple matter to weave and sidestep, to box at noses as if these were sharks. Leaving several stunned and bloodied, he does what the others haven’t and jumps the rails to the largest ship. Biggest ship is the likely leader. No chance these are separate groups. Get their leader, gain the advantage.

Departing the fray upon the Broken Crest, he leaps right into the two raiders about to do the same and the three go tumbling — Geralt punches both with simultaneous strikes, knocking them unconscious and jumping out of the way just as a fire bolt comes blazing at him.

_Of course these assholes would have a sorcerer..._

This fire starter has already hit the Broken Crest’s sails, effectively making her dead in the water.

“You, I might actually kill,” Geralt growls in threat before sprinting at the mage, clearly terrifying them. They cast several jets of flame, each hastily let loose and unsuccessful in finding their mark. Up close, grabbing their wrists before they can cast again, the Witcher actually beats the man across the face with his own hands and swings him overboard to the Waking Sea below.

Whipping back to make his attempt on the Raider Captain however, he finds _she_ got the advantage on him instead.

Though an enormous hat blocks her face, he’s not dumb enough to move now that she has a dagger at his throat and another at his groin.

“Well aren’t you something,” this one purrs while reminding him what’s at stake with the tips of both blades, “A cute and dumb something, certainly. I mean, raiding a raiding party without weapons? Who does that?”

Geralt’s eyes flick past his dark skinned aggressor and he joylessly quips “The weapon is right behind you” just as Idrilla slips her misericorde around the woman’s neck and plants her marked hand on their cheek, its green glow angry and pulsating. “Drop em if you know whit’s good fer you,” the elf whispers in the woman’s ear.

Tipping her chin up, keeping the narrow knife as far from her slender throat as possible, this Raider shows her face and she’s god damn gorgeous. Dark locks and striking hazelnut eyes, a single gold piercing under her full lips, and adorned in many jewels and coins made into accessories, her smile is lascivious as she says “Now where did you come from?” and nudges her ass back against the Inquisitor “Regardless, I refuse.”

“What,” Geralt grunts.

“Hurt me and I run my steel prick right through your boyfriend’s.”

“He isn’t my-“ Idrilla begins to protest as Geralt growls “No” uncomfortably with nowhere to go, the railing at his backside keeping him in place.

“Doesn’t matter but listen. We _can_ make a deal. You’re Inquisition, right? The hand is kind of a dead giveaway,” the sandwiched Raider tries her hand at diplomacy, batting her eyelashes, “Surely there’s something you want beyond extracting ourselves unharmed from this little scuffle — scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours wherever.”

“Whit... do you suggest?,” the Elven Inquisitor rasps in her ear, not letting up in the slightest.

“Hand over Braller and I’ll consider the slate wiped clean, just water under the…well, the ship. This ship in fact.”

“An’ why would we do that?,” Idrilla stresses her Ts.

“Because I’m so much prettier than he is?,” the Raider Captain suggests with a sigh, looking over her shoulder to bat eyelashes at the elf. Idrilla, not ready for that, a blush immediately takes to her face, but before she can reply anything, Varric yells out “Holy Shit! Isabela?!” as the smoke clears.

“Wha-Varric?! Is that you?,” she calls back with a laugh.

“Ah hehe, yes!” Varric chortles, “I thought you only stuck to the Amaranthine? Isn’t this a bit inland for you?”

“Well, typically yes, but that bitch of a ship you’re on stole from me. We’ve been tracking her for weeks.”

“Imagine that, that you’d be the victim of theft.”

“Ha ha,” she feigns laughter even as Braller barks “She’s a lying bitch!”’but her own people have him surrounded, cutlasses at the ready.

“Hey, so can we _not_ kill my friend?” the dwarf asks of everyone, “I’m good to jump ship so long as she’s willing to give us a lift.”

“What are you talking about?!” Cassandra argues but this Isabela fires off “The table is open to negotiations!”

“I vote we give whatev…most whatever she wants,” Varric starts but amends, “And she gives us safe passage to Val Royeux.”

“I’m amenable to those terms!” Isabela yells back but purring to the lady elf holding her hostage as she holds Geralt hostage in turn, Isabela asks “We have a deal, beautiful?”

“Varric?,” Idrilla calls out and the dwarf confirms, “Trust me, she’s worth the trouble.”

To that end, Idrilla reluctantly withdraws and once free from danger, Isabela does the same much to Geralt’s relief. Wishing he’d just armed up and cut her down, that he didn’t have to be embarrassed like that, he watches and listens in as Isabella struts to the bow and hops aboard the Broken Crest, squaring up with the Captain Braller. “This is your third offense, Captain,” she smiles and he hisses, but undaunted, she reminds “Did you learn nothing? Did losing two fingers really teach you that little?”

He holds out his hand, offering another finger perhaps, grumbling “…Sorry Admiral.”

“Oh, how cute! You think my system is an empty,” she smirks and quickly closes the gap, driving her dagger up under his ribs, gutting him good, “Gesture. I make. Good. On my. Promises” and yanks free the driven blade, sloshing his vitals to the deck as he crumples, dead, eyes frozen wide in shock. “Wait. Shit. Got ahead of yourself, girl,” she seems to talk to herself before snapping her fingers and her crewman shove the late Braller’s bloodied First Mate her way.

“Name,” she says, not asks while Cassandra and Blackwall both grimace out “Maker.”

“Yllstonson,” the First Mate answers, unsure, but claps his fist to his chest to pledge allegiance regardless. Doing his best not to look down his sunburned nose at the corpse at his feet, he looks only to the Raider Admiral, clearly fretting the same fate befalling him.

“Who do you steal from?”

Wise to her meaning, he quickly spits “Anyone not you.”

“There’s a good pet,” she praises wryly and wetly slaps her dagger coated in Braller’s blood to his cheek. “Now, I imagine you know where the man kept what’s mine...”

“Yes sir! Mum. Sir? Admiral!”

“Fetch,” she mouths and he takes off like the good sea dog he is, off to the former Captain’s quarters. A few minutes more and Yllstonson comes hurrying back out on deck, a thin leather bound tome in hand with loose pages poking out.

“You’re joking! A book?!,” Varric cackles so hard he almost drops Bianca, “Hahahahaha. Remember when you..”

“Yes,” she sighs, “I am all too aware of the irony, Varric.”

“Because back in Kirkwall-“

“Obviously! I said I’m all too aware!”

Oddly though, as their dialogue between the dwarf and pirate continue, Cassandra has a look of wonder. Her eyebrows rising high, she seems oddly enthused by whatever this is. _‘Thought she hated Varric,_ ’ Geralt puzzles for a moment over what no one else seems to be noticing.

Then again, it’s not any of his business. Ultimately, he couldn’t give two shits. Chalk it up to mild curiosity.

“So what is it, Rivaini?,” Varric gravels with a smirk, genuinely curious but she tuts back “Sorry. It’s a need to know business and Varric, you’re _not_ in my business” while eyeing the Seeker, the Warden, and the Inquisitor. Snubbed for the right reasons, he still smiles and concedes and she gives him a wink, a knowing smirk, and announces “Inquisition! Please step on board my beautiful frigate. _She_ will see you safely to… where was it?”

“Val Royeaux,” Lady Vivienne sneers at the pirate Admiral, “Can you actually get us there in that dinghy or are you all bluster, I wonder?”

“Oh, she’ll get you where you’re going,” Isabela returns, “She’ll always get you what you want. Not like some ships I know.” Whatever that means. And the sexual innuendos are appreciated but heavy handed. At least that’s how Geralt’s reading into it. As they board, leaving the Broken Crest behind, her crew quickly detaching the hooks and readying the sails, Admiral Isabela bids “Welcome to the Siren’s Call 3.”

“Wait. What happened to number 2?,” Varric asks with a screwed expression, puzzling something no one else seems to get.

“We don’t talk about 2,” she states before realizing, “Oh, Damn it. Need to get my mage out of the water,” and heeding her complaint, several crewman rush to the railings with rope in hand, scanning the waters below for the man Geralt tossed…

**______**

By mid day, they had passed the naval blockade into the Orlesian harbor with relative ease — the Siren’s Call 3 simply raised a merchants ensign flag from their suspicious store of many other flags — and sailed on in, making port. Evidently business as usual for them, a bounty of silks of questionable origin to sell, the Admiral Isabela flippantly waved the group off when the gangplank was lowered, not one for goodbyes.

As they walk the docks and make for the market, Varric slipping a wax stamped sealed letter into his coat pocket, Cassandra questions “So… that was…”

“Mhmm,” is all Varric hums.

“She and the Champion?”

“So you _did_ read my book.”

Though she rolls her eyes, she protests just a bit too much, “I did not — I had no time for such drivel. I assigned another to the task of slogging through it and giving me a summary.”

_Liar._

“Uh huh,” Varric grunts, unconvinced.

Needing a new topic, something less volatile as the dwarf and seeker get increasingly aggressive in their answers, Idrilla asks “So where are we going? Never been here. Don’t exactly know th’… I…itin..”

“Itinerary?,” Blackwall offers and she quickly snaps a finger, agreeing “Yes, tha’.”

“You are the Inquisitor, Darling. You absolutely _must_ familiarize yourself with the wonders of Orlais,” Vivienne lauds while leading the pack, “You aren’t some silly commoner,” just an air of condescension in her tone.

“But I am?”

“Not anymore,” Lady Vivienne stresses almost proudly as they pass groups of masked people drinking wine and snacking on finger foods, the sound of mistrals playing their woodwinds carried in the breeze.

‘ _Doesn’t smell like damp. Or wet hounds. Or mushrooms and cheese,’_ Geralt considers, barely paying attention to what’s being said, mostly just eyeing the tittering women that pass them by, a bit curious what’s going on under their masks. But the farther they walk, the more people now pay attention to the Herald Inquisitor, her marked hand all too obvious a beacon. Whispering in the streets, gossip already in free form, it’s a boon when they finally arrive at a hotel, its façade a grand spectacle of white marble and gold leaf. Through the doors and into the lobby however, there sits the brightly dressed Miss Montilyet, several trunks most likely belonging to her being lugged around by servants.

“Hm? Oh! You’re late,” she worries when she notices them over the top of whatever book she’s reading, clapping it closed, “I anticipated such and scheduled an later booking but you were late. Oh, do not tell me you got into trouble. Are you all alright?!”

A few bruises and healing cuts between themselves but nothing grotesque or life threatening, several shrug out “yes” and “Obviously” but Cassandra is feeling more transparent, reporting “We were forced to transfer to a new ship mid route.”

“What?! W-were the writs not enough??”

“It wasn’t that and can we discuss it elsewhere? I would like to-“

“Oh, yes! Please, follow me this way,” Josephine perks up and eagerly swoops in to hook arms with Idrilla — with Vivienne gliding to the elf’s free side — and the two escort the Dalish mage, leaving the rest to mill about until Cassandra, realizing they aren’t coming back, asks the desk with exasperation “Where are our rooms?”

**______**

Not bad.

The room is actually big enough to comfortably contain seven people. The four women have their own room, so they’re the luckier by far. But leaving all his gear tucked under his bed, Geralt wandered down the to bathhouse in dire need of a soak, certain there’s still flecks of dragon blood and demon in his hair. Though the attendants winced and sneered at his arrival, coin and prestige loosen even the tightest of assholes — one mention of being Inquisition and he was swiftly brought to a pool in the corner all for him…

Despite their obvious attempt at hiding him away while also trying to save face, Geralt can’t help but huff “Win win” in amusement as he slides into the perfectly warm waters, steam wafting from basins of hot coals nearby. For all intents and purposes alone, he growls, pleased, and drapes a warm, damp towel over his face, just enjoying the luxury. 

“Ugh!,” he hears one patron protest in passing, “He smells like zee Deep Roads!”

“Please, ignore zee creature. Just zis way,” an attendant tries to redirect.

_Whatever that means._

Deep breath, relax…

“Who izz zat?,” he overhears someone question from across the bathhouse, “Iz ‘air eez so white?,” a real heavy Orlesian accent on them.

_Ignore..._

“More cheez wheels!,” another unseen mentions to an attendant

_Cheese? In a bath? Disgusting._

His medallion — the only item still worn — starts vibrating before the sound of liquid pouring reaches his ears and the even stronger aroma of lavender punches him in the nose. “You miss her,” Geralt hears Cole utter softly but snatching the towel off his eyes, the Witcher spots the lad pouring an entire bottle of smelling oil into his bath.

“STOP!,” Geralt curses and throws the rag but Cole has already vanished and an attendant now stands in his place, struck in the face with the damp wad, huffing “AN ENTIRE BOTTLE? YOU! WHAT EV YOU DONE?! ZAT WAS ONE OF OUR MOST EXPENS-“

“IT WASN’T ME,” He fires back, pissed and slick, his sense of smell overwhelmed with a headache well on its way..

“OUT! YOU NEED TO LEAVE IMM-“ they start to shout but Idrilla walks right in, not giving a damn about the nudity, her hand aglow. Cassandra following behind, playing guard escort, she’s must less comfortable in this setting, actually shielding her eyes.

“Inquisition?!,” is all the attendant squeaks before excusing themselves rather quickly, tucking behind a column so as not to be seen.

 _“_ Come on. We got ta get back ta Josephine,” Idrilla grumbles and Cass groans “Now!”

“No,” Geralt growls with his arms out like an angry goose, snorting to get the oil scent out of his nostrils.

“Yes,” the elf persists.

“Hngggg,” he rumbles angrily.

“Because something about human parties being dangerous.”

“WOULD YOU _GET_ OUT ALREADY?!,” Cassandra yells, her eyes firmly locked on the ceiling, clearly embarrassed to be in a coed bathhouse.

Fuck it.

Relaxation ruined anyway, not even bothering with a towel, Geralt rises from the water like the scarred up beast he is, immodest and blunt. A woman and man both swoon across the way, dropping their small plate of cheeses into their bath and Idrilla purses her lips, struggling not to laugh as Cassandra demands “COVER YOURSELF!” almost in a panic.

Brazen and nude, Geralt goes storming off, heading toward the lobby and the stairs but two attendants catch up with him, hastily and almost fearfully draping a robe across him. “Please, zee other guests!,” one delicately reminds the irate Witcher but conceding, no cleaner than he was when he came in thanks to Cole’s interference, he cinches the silk garment shut and continues upward in his huff, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind him to their dismay…

**______**

Clothes laundered, courtesy of the hotel. They didn’t want another incident like earlier. He went to shove the robe back at them in exchange but they demanded he keep it.

Far from them.

Never give it back.

They made that abundantly clear.

Now, done back up in his cleaned pants and cotton shirt, he leans in silence against the wall of a lavish parlor room that Josie had specifically reserved for just this occasion — to teach proper manners and dancing for the impending ball.

Which fork for what dessert…

Which hand to hold one’s drink with…

How to address someone when you aren’t aware of their status…

When to dance and how…

At present, it’s that last one first with Josephine leading Idrilla around the room in something resembling a waltz with the elf shooting disdainful looks at the Witcher, with a tuneless pass around the room, she threatens “If I have ta, you have ta!”

Another once around…

“It’s yer fault I’m here.”

“1 2 3,” Dorian counts out the measure.

“Was gonna run away but you talked me inta this.”

“No,” he grimaces, thinking of how every party or celebration hes been to has usually meant dealing with or resulting in attempts on his life, a Queen banishing him, some manner of curse, “Don’t need to.”

Wearing a fake smile, trying to put the Inquisitor at ease, Josephine comments “I am afraid, Ser Witcher, that you _do_ need to participate.”

Having experienced far more of high society and its blustering fools than he’d like, just wanting to get this charade over with as quickly as possible, Geralt stuns with concession, growling a drawn out “...Fine.”

“And then you go an’ …wait? You... really? I wasn’t expecting you ta be so agreeable,” Idrilla comments as Josephine stops the dance lesson to exclaim “Wonderful,” clasping her hands together in excitement.

“Wait? You were going to what?!” Cassandra blurts out, seemingly the only one paying attention but Idrilla waves her off, mouthing “No I wasn’t” and shaking her head. Cassandra narrows her eyes but takes a seat across the room, watching, arms folded in consternation.

“And now the dance steps,” Josie addresses, promptly moves to Geralt and gives a curtsy. Begrudgingly, he bows as is customary, baffling those watching, and expertly, he takes her hand and falls into the paces as Dorian counts out “1 2 3 1 2 3 1 2 3 Switch! 1 2 3 1 2 3 1 2 3 and rotate. 1 2 3 1...” and during this, the lady Ambassador asks “So, a few rules of the highest priority that you need to learn for when we are in the presence of Empress Cel-“ but Geralt shocks again when he sighs out “Don’t arrive early nor too late. Break your bread into smaller bites. Drink with your left hand when standing. Never refuse a dance — you don’t know who you’ll piss off and what armies they have backing them.”

Josephine, her heart skips a beat — evidently one less person to tutor in the ways of high society — and Idrilla just glares at the Witcher, grinning but with grit teeth, frankly annoyed she has to do this alone. Sera absolutely requires a lesson in this but she’s been ghosting the group, slipping out whenever attention turns to her so Idrilla may as well be alone…

**______**

“...I’m not wearing this,” the Inquisitor frowns at the carmine red military attire the tailor wheels in at Josie’s behest. Fourteen incomplete and horrible outfits hang from the rack, ready to be fitted, an odd medley of colors and add ons.

Vivienne, a sneer of disapproval threatening to crack her well practiced expression of feigned nicety, she’s forced to state “This is absolutely ghastly and I refuse to risk anyone seeing me — nay, us — in this disaster” to the discomfort of the tailor lurking behind the rack.

Dorian states rather flatly while poking at the gold shoulder guards, “If you didn’t want people to take us seriously, you could have simply told us to enter the Winter Palace in the buff. That’s the effect these will have. I want you to know that. However, if that _is_ your intention, then by all means, I’m quite proud of my body so if need be, I’ll-“ but Josie cuts in to argue “They show us as a unified group!” only ever the quick one, Dorian cracks back “United to fashion disaster, of course.”

“There eezn’t time for a total redesign,” the tailor timidly points out, “And I don’t have duplicates of any other set. I am zorry. I can only adjuzt what I have here in time for zee fete tomorrow…”

“I hate this,” Dorian complains.

“Seconded,” Vivienne echos.

“It’s uh… bright?,” Blackwall comments, unsure of it.

“Who the fuck cares?,” Bull shrugs upon entering the room and takes a bite out of an apple, evidently having heard enough outside, “We’re there to keep our eyes open, not impress.”

“We should always aim to impress,” Vivienne levels a glare at the Qunari and he gulps hard, uttering an “Uh, oh… Sorry Viv,” apologetically. She keeps her stare locked on him and Bull corrects again, saying “Ma’am. Ahem.”

“Remember that.”

“Understood,” he quickly nods and slips back out, eager to be free of the Knight Enchanter’s gaze.

Geralt though, with everything he’s ever put up with or had to improvise in terms of clothes, he can’t help but think ‘ _Worn worse’_ to himself, the worse option being a time he had to use Jaskier’s petticoat as a loincloth after getting dragged from a brothel by a troll…

_Bad times…_


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was going to post this as two chapters originally. Now it’s one. Enjoy the Winter Palace.

Four hours.

Four damn hours.

Hours of just swallowing against the tight collar of this terrible outfit, waiting in what would be an idyllic garden if not for the number of lords and ladies packed in, each sycophant tittering and fake laughing at the next in all too obvious bids for favor.

This place is a true monster’s nest.

No matter how kindly or intrigued these nobles may attempt to be, Geralt need only look to their mouths to see their sneers.

Ignore the masks. They’re just that, a poor attempt at hiding one’s inner machinations…

“I hope you don’t intend to be so sour looking the entire evening,” Dorian interrupts Geralt’s brooding to say, smiling and giving small nods to the people eyeing them in kind, “I’m no physician but I strongly encourage you find a strong drink.”

“Have you found any or will they just serve me more…,” Geralt casually questions while snatching a curious green shot glass from a passing elven servant’s tray, raising it for examination, “…puréed elfroot and call it art?”

“What does is taste of? Bitterness? Displeasure? I hear those are all the rage this season. Regardless, they _are_ Orlesian so wine is practically a religion here,” Dorian smooths out his mustache, “Fear not, you’ll have that decent drink. In fact, if you’re of a mind, I’ll join you.”

The Witcher shrugs in response — this mage, this Dorian, he’s clever and the Witcher can only reason ‘ _Enjoys the sound of his own voice but isn’t so full of himself as to be a complete jackass. That’s a point in his favor,’_ going over the mental checklist of pros and cons.

Only just as the two wander off in search of the fabled wine, Josephine swoops between them both, hooking her arms through theirs and hurrying them through the throngs of nobles to the curving stairs and up to the main entrance, all the while hissing “Move move move move move” under her breath. Once inside, she swiftly pats them both down, straightening up every imagined wrinkle on their bright red suits, and forces them in line behind others of the Inquisition.

“Stay. Right. Here,” she demands of them both and with the deadliest of looks, something totally alien upon her usually sweet face.

“Now, now,” Dorian tries to softly assure, “We were _just_ getting a drink. No funny business,” but unable to keep entirely in check, he lets slip “…other than our outfits.”

“Quiet,” she glares, not willing to hear any more of it and pointing at the ornate tile beneath their shiny umber leather boots, she commands “Do. Not. Move. From. This. Spot.” and with a huff, goes briskly off in search of others still evidently missing, muttering “Sera. Varric. Solas. Blackwall! Where can they be?!” under her breath, “Like herding cats!”

“So,” Dorian says while leaning out of the queue to spy the guests ahead in this welcoming vestibule, “She said _wander aimlessly_ through the palace, no? Nothing about staying in place?,” a crooked smirk firmly upon his handsome face. Josephine, however, comes storming past, shooting the pair a scathing look as a marquis in the ballroom beyond announces “And now presenting… Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons. And accompanying him…”

The procession moves forward a few steps as partygoers enter. “Guess not,” Dorian mutters...

“…Lady Inquisitor Idrilla Lavellan…”

The room goes quiet as they listen attentively.

“…Vanquisher of the Rebel Mages of Ferelden, Crusher of the vile apostates of the Mage Underground!”

 _‘Not what happened,’_ Geralt notes to himself as he shifts forward, standing now in the threshold to the lavish ballroom, heavy silk banners and drapes of rich Prussian blue and golden inlay whereever pristine white marble is exposed, all uplit by flameless sconces.

“Champion of the Blessed Andraste herself!”

People gasp and fawn, many clinging to the marble banisters and railings to lean closer…

“Accompanying the Inquisitor,” the marquis continues, his face concealed by a mustached half mask, “Ser Cullen Stanton Rutherford of Honnleath. Commander of the forces of the Inquisition. Former Knight-Commander of Kirkwall. Lady Leliana, Nightingale of the Imperial Court. Veteran of the Fifth Blight. Companion to the Hero of Ferelden. Seneschal of the Inquisition and Left Hand of the Divine…”

_When did they arrive?_

“And Lady Josephine Cherette Montilyet of Antiva City, Ambassador of the Inquisition.”

To that, those three advisors step off, following in Idrilla and that Duke’s wake. And then the next three filter to the top of the stairs and the marquis announces anew, “Madame Vivienne, First Enchanter of the Circle of Magi, Enchanter of the Imperial Court, Mistress of the Duke of Ghislain.”

Shuffling closer to the platform…

“Seeker Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena—”

“Get _on_ with it!,” the seeker protests and hastening through his written speech, the Marquis calls out “…Pentaghast. Fourteenth cousin to the King of Nevarra, nine times removed. Hero of Orlais, Right Hand of the Divine” in an attempt to not further irritate the renowned warrior. “And The Iron Bull, leader of the famed mercenary company Bull’s Chargers. As the name might imply.”

And step off. With no one else of the Inquisition having shown to this unnecessary display, likely having found the drinks themselves, Dorian and Geralt are directed to the stairs looking out over the empty dance floor. Stealing the shot of puréed elfroot still in the Witcher’s grasp, the announcer proclaims “Lord Dorian Pavus, member of the Circle of Vyrantium, son of Lord Magister Halward Pavus of Asariel. And lastly, Ser Geralt of Rivain, professional monster hunter…”

“It’s Rivi… ah, doesn’t matter,” Geralt sighs in resignation and tugs at his collar before the two proceed regardless down the steps and slow walk across the brightly lit dance floor as the announcer queues up his next guests. Meanwhile, the Empress — in her elegant blue ball gown — seems to have just finished with her personal greeting to the three ahead; the Witcher and Mage make their approach.

“How fares your homeland in these trying times?,” the Empress casts a subtle shade at Dorian, her soft painted smile and plumed half mask hiding her truer self, “Many eyes are upon Tevinter now.” Beautiful and blonde from what is visible, but beneath the mask, what stares back, is cold and calculating.

“Eyes are always on Tevinter — nothing new there,” Dorian smiles right back, “It _is_ Tevinter after all.”

“Quite,” she comments and turns her attention to the Witcher. “And a professional monster hunter?,” Celene inquires, “How successful can you be when that magister of old yet threatens the world?”

“Not very, evidently,” he answers in earnest of that particular case but she seems amused by that, offering a tiny smile and a “Then I wish you better fortune in your future”

 _‘Here’s to wishing,’_ he thinks while sauntering left, following in Dorian’s footsteps and as soon as they rejoin the waxing crowd, he now hears each with the whisper of “Inquisition” and “A rabbit?” on their lips. Seems no matter where he goes, there’s some degree of racism against the non humans. Disappointing. But no sooner thought do nobles turn their eyes to his, shying or boldly stepping close to get a better look. Next thing he knows, he and Dorian have been separated and he’s surrounded.

“Look at zem,” one woman pouts in awe, “How _did_ you get zem like zat?”

“Like a cat!,” another says through wine stained lips, “Do zey come in other styles?”

“How hideous!,” one man bemoans, “Surely zee Chantry will deal with zis one” but his date argues “Haven’t you heard? After zee clash in Val Royeux with zee Lord Seeker, they have been essentially neutered.”

”So we are free to do as we please? So long as zee Maker does not see? Ahahaha.”

But even locked in this tedium with these annoyances pressing close to tease or gawk or take him in, Geralt spots the silver glint of a platter in a passing elven servant’s hands, specifically the glass flutes of something bubbly. With a curt unintelligible grunt, he shoves through anyway, parting the sea of nobles as he stalks his potable prey. Just as he nears however, that glistening glass of what can only be regular alcohol, yet again he’s stopped. “You smell rather floral,” the interrupting someone who may or may not be a man comments, sniffing at the visibly uncomfortable Witcher, “Lilac? Jasmine? No, eets on zee tip of my tongue…”

With a heavy sigh, his prize escaping behind a column, Geralt answers “Hngh...lavender.”

“Ah! Zats eet!,” the person leans in closer, “Zuch a relaxing aroma…”

“I… I wanted to help you sleep,” Cole timidly comments from behind the stranger, feeling it evidently safe enough to emerge from wherever it is he goes to, “When you sleep, you dream of her and you miss her. It hurts but it heals.” The way the Orlesian doesn’t seem to notice the boy and that the wolf medallion is vibrating softly under his coat, Cole is clearly neither here nor there…

Unless there’s something else nearby to watch for…

The ghost boy turns and walks behind the stranger, never emerging from the other side, simply gone again…

‘ _Damnit, Cole,’_ Geralt can’t help but think as he growls “Uh… pardon me,” doing his utmost to part from this hanger on without pissing them off. They just won’t take the hint though…

“So pale for a Rivaini…”

“Mhm,” Geralt just plays along, scanning the ballroom for other Elven servers, preferably near the exits.

“I am bet-ting you are an easy one to blush.”

“Sure.”

“And zee way your lips move…”

Nope. Too much, this person is pushing their luck, so in an attempt at freedom from this uncomfortable moment, Geralt furrows his brow and boldly lies “Oh, I apologize but it appears the Grand Duke is trying to wave you over?”

“Oh?! Whe-“ the stranger turns to look, excited, but the Witcher’s already slipped away, moving like the wind through the many, sidestepping flailing arms and narrowly avoiding toes, all to get back out to the vestibule and just in time. An elf passes in that exact instant and Geralt snatches a flute, downing it quickly enough to grab a second, swapping for a fresh glass and uttering a low “Mmmm” to himself in appreciation.

No bizarre flavor profile, no attempts at the unnatural, it’s just a good crisp drink. He really should stay sober but it’s hard not to given his tolerance and the lack of available drinks.

Then again, every single person here is an obvious lush, drinking it up like fish as quickly as the servants can bring it out. Makes his job easier.

 _‘But somewhere assassins are something or another,’_ he ineloquently reminds while doing his best to avoid eye contact — best not invite a dialogue — and instead just clocks the stance and posture of most everyone here. Hell, the way they’re all walking, at least three quarters of them are carrying small knives. Too easy to assume just as many are concealing vials of poison. This will be difficult…

Another elf, another glass…

And it’s then he notices an unattended mask — a silver half mask with crimped silk — on a fainting couch in the recess of the marble wall, sconces almost highlighting it as a quest item. Bright red military outfit aside, this _could_ help him blend in some. At this point, no matter how slim the potential for success, it would be worth it just to be even a touch less conspicuous.

Masked and strolling away from the crowd and those still entering the ballroom to be announced, down an emptier hall, he overhears “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” from somewhere below, hidden behind an oversized statue, memorializing yet another person that Geralt couldn’t give a shit about, much less read up on.

A familiar grizzle of a voice, however, it answers back “Um, no. I’m… just a Grey Warden.”

 _‘Blackwall. So that’s where you’ve been,’_ the Witcher notes as he continues on his way, barely listening in as the other presses “I know I have zeen you before… your face, so familiar…”

“Look, unless I conscripted you — and I didn’t — we wouldn’t have had reason to meet.”

“…especially around zee eyes. Maybe.. without zee beard?”

“Uhhhhhh,” is the last of what Geralt overhears of that as he passes a couple of Elves being all too shifty, eyeing him hard as he continues on by — they shut up real quick — but though he pretends to pay them no mind, he’s got them clocked. Then again, they aren’t any more or less suspicious than every other asshole in this palace. The place is packed with to the brim with em.

There’s Solas pretending to be a servant…

There’s Bull going to town on a buffet table…

Two noblemen in metaphorical dick measuring contest…

Another pair of elves but these are mopping up a puddle of blood, blood that every guest seems to ignore…

But amidst all this, the arguments, the tittering, the drunken lampooning and stuffing of faces, a burst of chestnut red flits through his periphery. Inquisition task on hold, Geralt pushes through the growing crowd and out onto a terrace, too insistent as he forces his way after the red head with low side buns

 _‘Triss!,_ ’ he’s convinced, ‘ _It’s her!’_ but grabbing her shoulder and spinning her, she gasps and nearly faints. This isn’t her. “Uhhh sorry,” Geralt mutters in meek apology as the redhead fans herself off, flustered, exclaiming “I EV NEVER” but Geralt quickly steps away before she can finish what was likely going to end up a tirade of heavily accented curses and poorly strung together sentiments of outrage.

_Shit. Best not to engage with that._

The first bell chimes through the palace and eyes raise, knowing they’re on call. The ball has officially begun and some disperse to hurry in for whatever reason but Geralt spots a table topped with a number odd little finger foods, each with an accompanying description placard that he can’t read. Popping an herbed crostini topped with a sliver of dark cheese in his mouth, he grabs a napkin, quickly spitting it out. Disappointment shouldn’t have a taste. “What is so wrong with these people that normal flavors won’t suffice?,” he grunts under his breath while daring to try a different morsel.

Some manner of pâté wrapped in a grape leaf…

His nostrils wrinkle at yet another profile of profound displeasure. Inexplicably, this _thing_ tastes of despair, only this time, he spits it out in the potted plant when no one is looking. Taking a half sipped glass of wine some other guest left behind, not caring whose it was, he downs it in a single gulp, trying to wash out the taste.

“You should try the croissants,” a familiar woman’s voice advises from behind, “They taste of… Envy? It really is a most curious thing,” stopping his next breath. Impossible. But his hopes aren’t dashed. Not this time. Before him, a vixen of a woman in a gorgeous teal and gold lamé dress, covering all from her stiletto heels to her slender neck, red hair cascading casually out from behind a silver half mask lined with metallic orange. “Oh, Geralt,” she says, “You’re wearing a woman’s mask,” with a grin on her face.

“Triss.”

“In the flesh,” she beams and immediately swoops in to embrace the stunned Witcher. Surprise and relief washing over him, certain this isn’t a hallucination or trick, he does the same, holding her close to him as she utters “I wasn’t sure what had befallen you…” into his chest. But as he clears his throat, Triss gets the hint and falls back, shaking her head as she instead goes into explaining “…I cannot be certain, not absolutely, but my working theory is that this world’s Breach or Conclave explosion interfered with my portal spell. Somehow, whatever set it off may have had trans dimensional effects in a manner similar to the conjunction of spheres.”

“Well. Shit.”

“But that’s just my theory at present. Melitele’s favor, I just can’t believe you’re here… where did you exit? Please tell me it wasn’t too rough a landing…”

“Right into the middle of Inquisition operations,” he growls and snags another pair of glasses from a passing servant, “Thought they were Nilfgaardian at first…

“Because of the…of course. And considering how little good will exists between you and Emperor Emhyr…”

“Yeah. They had me in jail. Thought I was responsible for… everything.”

Shaken, eyes wide, Triss utters softly “By comparison, I’ve had it positively easy. I am so sorry”

“It’s… fine.”

“No, it isn’t,” she sighs but Geralt instead comments “So… landed here?”

“No — and it’s embarrassing — but I remember plummeting from the sky into a lake with a tower jutting from it but I must’ve passed out from exhaustion or… or perhaps there was magic in the water? Luckily, when I awoke, I was in the Orlesian countryside at Duchess Florianne’s chateau, her people nursing me back to health. Strangely, she took an immediate liking to me and ever since, I’ve been her guest.”

“Almost jealous. I’ve nearly died a handful of times, meanwhile you’ve been living in the lap of luxury,” he sighs as they clink glasses, toasting their luck at finding one another “Then again, you do have that winning personality when it comes to royalty.”

“I must, hehehe” she snickers, “Oh, I have to introduce you! She’s been oh so wonderful, funding my research into solving my — our — return.”

“Really? Any luck?”

“None yet, but I feel I’m close,” she admits but at the chiming of the second bell, she redirects their attention to other matters, “…But enough of that for now. It’s a party, Geralt, we really should enjoy it,” and extends her gloved hand with an easy smile. Not exactly in the mood to go wading back through the masses inside, Geralt audibly sighs but relents for his friend, begrudgingly accepting her offer and off they go. Triss leads and he follows, the two of them drawing glances as they do, a most curious pairing but they have no trouble making their way to the dance floor.

The dance is simple enough, one of the ones Dorian and Josephine covered. Fortunate. Easy to replicate. On the spin however, she falls in rather closely, hugging him tight as they sway and move with grace…

Her half-masked face presses to him and with a whisper, and flushed cheeks, she asks “…Geralt?”

They weave amongst the other dancers, his cat eyes studying any and all for threats, he grunts “Yeah, Triss?”

“Remember the garden party? Mmm… the Vegelbud estate…”

“Mhm,” he grunts in response with a deep rumble in his chest. He remembers well enough, hurrying after her through the hedge maze, catching her as she drunkenly slipped from the fountain, but also telling her he only has eyes for Yen, that what Triss wants can never be. And now this is somewhat awkward, though she doesn’t seem to pick up on it. Then again, based on the evidence, here’s hoping she’s just tipsy and feeling a particular lack of inhibition, that that’s what this is.

She can’t have forgotten.

She knows better than to press that point.

 _‘Yen would literally murd-‘_ Geralt starts to think but the idea is cut short when the audience gasps and gawks over another couple; Idrilla and a sickly blonde come twirling by, all eyes upon them, evidently the most interesting thing in this palace beyond the talks of civil war between royals.

Power attracts.

 _‘She looks tired?,’_ Geralt notes of the Inquisitor, ‘ _Wonder what she’s been getting into…’_

The floor opens up to the elf and stranger, everyone else pushing to the edges, as they go around and around and around… but it’s just a dance and soon the players stop their tune, the steps coming to an end and though too noisy yet to overhear what the Duchess is whispering to Idrilla, it’s obvious the former told latter some pertinent information. Whatever it is, here’s to hoping it’s relevant to the Inquisition cause, allowing them all to depart this ball sooner rather than later…

Then the pale looking royal with the short pixie cut turns and spots the redhead sorceress through the crowd — Triss waves right back, beckoning.

“Hello, my… dear Merigold,” the woman tries to smile, a slight sheen of sweat beneath her mask, “Who is this specimen beside you? Is it _he_?” and nodding to the Witcher, looking to his eyes for confirmation, she states “Duchess Florianne de Chalons. Eet is a pleasure to finally meet you, Geralt of Rivia.” As the Witcher’s brow rises in mild surprise that anyone would get that detail right, even if Triss had been the one to tell her, Florianne smirks out “Zey announced you incorrectly but I humbly apologize for zat. Good help is so hard to find.”

“Hm. It’s fine.”

“So accommodating, so curt.”

He shrugs.

“And a man of few words. Even better,” Florianne smiles at this but a cough catches in her throat, pausing her for a moment until she inquireS “Zee lovely Miss Merigold told me all about you, but I wonder, surely it cannot all be true? Can you… ahem, impress me? Prove to me your… skills?”

 _‘Flirting? No. Not euphemisms. Genuine,’_ he considers as Triss begs “Please, Geralt, do show her what you’re capable of!”

“Hm,” he grunts but Triss smacks his arm, insisting “Geralt, don’t be rude.” Another shrug, he blinks and scans, sniffing the air unassumingly, then piecing the clues together he utters so only they three may hear, “You have consumption.”

Though Triss pales at the comment, horrified by his candor, Florianne questions “And why would you say zat?”

“Can smell the bloody handkerchief tucked between your cleavage. Then there’s the catching of your lungs and the exhaustion…”

“Impressive,” the Duchess whispers to Geralt but eyeing Triss, she says “You… did not oversell zis Witcher man. I would love to stay and chat some more but I have other matters to attend to. Do save me a dance, my Merigold.”

“Of course.”

“And you as well, Monsieur Witcher,” she says with an awkward wink and excuses herself, slipping back into the crowd.

“So?” Triss asks after Geralt and he grunts “Hm?”

“Isn’t she wonderful?”

“Called you _her Merigold_. You two…?,” he not so subtly inquires but with a flash of blush, almost matching her hair for a moment, Triss protests “Really, Geralt? She’s just a good friend.”

“Not judging.”

“It felt like you were.”

“No.”

She narrows her eyes but ultimately brushes it all aside, saying “…Let’s just drop it. We’ve found each other again, even in this strange world, and I won’t let this moment sour. Let’s just go find some more drinks. You can introduce me to your Inquisition companions.”

“Hm,” he grunts with lackluster enthusiasm as she tries pulls him along, “Can that wait for after the… this?”

“Why?,” her pleased smile slips, becoming a line of concern.

“Supposed to keep an eye out for,” he starts to say but a group of people pass to closely for his liking and so he waits until again they two are alone, “Idiots.”

“Geralt. What _are_ you talking about?? Is someone in danger?”

“…The Empress,” he growls low, almost inaudibly.

Trying not to react, to keep cool, Triss casts furtive glances about the ballroom, trusting Geralt’s information while whispering “Celene could be the target, but really any of the royal family could be at risk.”

“Mhm.”

“And you just let the Duchess walk off alone?”

This could be problematic. As he noted before, everyone here has a blade, a secret, and a vial tucked into their sleeve. Truly, the danger could come from anywhere. ‘ _Shit,’_ he thinks as he and Triss fall silent, hiding their faces behind their wine but keeping an eye to the crowds — and Celene — all at once. It’s distant, hard to make out, but Geralt could swear he just heard the charge and burst of a rift. But there’s no one screaming. No demons.

_Imagined it?_

No.

Something _’_ s wrong. Idrilla comes bounding out a side door, a splash of crimson on her carmine red suit, frantically looking for someone or some…

The elf finds her quarry, eyes firmly locked on the sole woman — Florianne — walking the dance floor toward the Empress; shoving people aside to the protests of “Rabbit, what!?,” Idrilla hunts, her step getting quicker and quicker. Anticipating her actions and shoving off to assist, Geralt barrels ahead, running the other side to get Celene…

Something slaps.

A dagger clatters to the floor.

The room collectively gasps.

“D-did zee Inquisitor just throw her boot at zee Duchess?,” a stunned noblewoman questions but there’s no time to appreciate the humor. There’s shadows shifting outside the central balcony and Geralt lunges behind Celene just in time to stop some harlequin asshole’s dagger…

With his hand.

Right through the palm.

Ignoring the audience, growling as viciously as his nickname would imply , he clutches at the attacking hand, holding close as he grabs their throat and crushes. Terrified, the Empress backs against the railing, hand to her fearful heart but using the Witcher as her shield…

A quick glance back reveals Idrilla has Florianne trapped, Leliana, Cullen, and Vivienne cutting of the Duchess’ means of escape.

The dagger is poisoned. Of course it is. Fucking classic. Can feel toxins pumping through his veins, that familiar burning sensation as the sclera of his eyes darken, but even as he snaps the neck of the would-be-assassin, another leaps from a burst of smoke only to be struck with entropic energies, their body withering and faltering as their life force is siphoned to the palms of a black haired sorceress in the corner only to be repurposed, cast as a barrier over the Empress…

The room hangs in shock until Idrilla shatters it, mocking “Florianne… if yeh wanted me dead, you should’ve stuck around ta make sure of it. And letting Venatori an’ demons in? Stupid, even fer you.”

“Y-you have no proof. All lies,” the Duchess tries to deflect but disgusted, Gaspard is already distancing himself. “Brother?,” she worries, “Zurly you do not belie-“

“Get her out of my sight,” he barks at the palace guard and the Duchess crumples, sobbing in disbelief to the stunned silence of everyone. Geralt though, excusing himself to the Empress’ personal balcony as the scene unfolds in the ballroom, he yanks free the blade and grabs a cloth napkin to bind his hand. Using the cover of night to hide how dark his eyes are, with heavy lids he squints and tears the mask off, tossing it to the serving table. Better to sit and wait out the toxicity effects over being called a demon again. The poison stings, certainly, but it’s not the worst substance he’s ever had introduced to his bloodstream.

Not by a long shot.

He’ll weather it.

“Fucking Royals,” he hisses under breath, clenching tightly at the cloth, staunching the flood of blood.

“I just can’t believe... At least no one died this time,” Triss speaks sadly, softly, as she slips through the curtains and out to join him.

“Isn’t she wonderful?,” he says, dripping with sarcasm as he flexes his hand, “Word for word.”

“Geralt,” she answers, a touch of irritation creeping into her voice.

“Hm,” is all he grunts, giving his stern eyebrows a rise as he shakes his head before snatching yet another drink to down. And another. “Assassins stopped,” he plants the glasses upside down on the tablecloth and stomps past Triss. In a mood, he desperately needs some alone time and so he goes off in search of another balcony or grotto he can find a moment’s peace in. Been around people for nearly two weeks straight and he’s had enough of it…

Should be a happy moment — he’s reunited with Triss — but it’s bitter and he rips the damn button off his collar so he can fucking breathe, glaring to the night sky and the waning moons hanging over Orlais.

But even that respite is cut short when he almost immediately overhears “Arrest zat one — she was zee Duchess’ guest” followed by “What _are_ you doing?! Get your hands off me! Geralt? Geralt!”

“Goddamnit,” Geralt curses, storming back out from his pocket of solitude, ready to throw down but keeping one hand over his eyes so as to not put the wrong idea in their little, oh so certain, heads, “Release her. Now.”

“Do not interfere, zis is an imperial matter,” the palace guard captain pushes but Geralt puts himself right in front of the armored authority. And despite the height difference — this other standing a good half foot over the Witcher — Geralt holds his ground while hiding his eyes, growling “Hands off.”

“I don’t care who you zink you are, but-“

Detaching herself from Celene, Idrilla comes swooping in like an opportunistic magpie to claim a shiny new trinket, dictating “Sorry, no. Tha’ one’ll be coming with us” while planting a hand on the Witcher’s shoulder to keep him from doing something rash. “Inquisition business. I’m th’ Inquisitor. You may have heard o’ me” but then leaning in closer to whisper to Geralt, she asks “Tha’s your sorcerer friend, right?”

“Mhm.”

Understanding that, the stakes, Idrilla demands “Then tha’s tha’ isn’t it? Did yer job for you after all. Dareth shiral” of the guardsmen, that last snippet of foreign tongue just laden with sarcasm by the tone of it. The guard captain tries to protest, to continue the arrest, but the elf says again, and all too sternly, “Dareth shiral, shem.” Whatever it means, that time she meant it as a threat and it’s taken as such. But none will draw swords against her, not here, not against the Inquisitor. It’s a stalemate of sorts, that is, until Cullen and Leliana join in with the two so respectively stating “You’re relieved of this charge” and “Orlesian Imperial matters do not supersede matters in regards to Corypheus or his venatori. If there is to be any questioning, it will be done by Inquisition personnel. Do you object, guard captain Havassier?”

“...You know my name,” he says with narrowing eyes.

“I know a great deal as my official position demands such.”

Gritting their teeth before conceding, trying to look unimpressed, he bids his guards stand down with a slice of his hand through the air. And with that, Leliana and Cullen escort Triss through the palace with angry Geralt in tow. Outside to the carriage arrivals with one already awaiting, they get in and Geralt aims to get in with them but Leliana shakes her head, ordering “No. What are you doing? We need you shadowing the Inquisitor.”

“But-“

“We don’t know what other dangerous elements still lie in wait within. Today is a victory but for how long?”

Still looking elsewhere to conceal his truth, knowing she’s right, Geralt sighs and reluctantly climbs back out but at least Triss smiles his way, urging “Go. I don’t need protecting and I’ll see you before the night is done.”

“Why are you holding your hand over your-“ Cullen starts to say but ignoring that, Geralt growls “If you hurt her, I’ll end you,” making certain the spymaster knows but Leliana counters “and I will return the favor should something befall the Inquisitor.” Grasping the situation, Triss falls quiet and tenses up. But this isn’t her first inquisition, she’s handled witch hunters before with painful aplomb. As Cullen groans “Maker’s breath,” the sorceress gives Geralt a small nod as the doors shut and the carriage driver snaps the reins…

And he can only watch as they ride off, muttering “She can handle herself” under his breath to no one.

But other people are seeking departure so he vacates the reception gardens, returning inside, ignoring any who try to spark conversations and just looking around.

Vivienne and Josephine are playing damage control with nobles and royals.

Bull seems be eavesdropping while pretending to snack...

A mad elf goes darting by — Sera — with a tablecloth’s worth of treats thrown over shoulder...

But he can swear he hears Idrilla’s telltale brogue and following that to yet another balcony, he’s first met with the black haired witch from before, the one that withered an assassin. No introduction, she merely questions “What are you, I wonder?”

“No one.”

“I did not ask who, but what,” she smirks and continues on her way.

’ _Careful of her,_ ’ he makes note of the nameless witch — she seems a dangerous one — but regardless, he steps back into the cool night air and finds his duty lounging on the broad balcony railing, drunkenly gazing to the lovely night sky, a couple of empties littering the ground beneath her as she takes a swig from a third.

“Yer not gonna… ask me ta dance are you?” As Geralt twists up his face, a scowl, she lazily turns to look. “Oh, good. Everyone seems ta want _the honor_ ,” she stresses, more exhausted than irritated, “Even Solas came out an’ requested one...”

His face cast in shadow, relaxing now, the toxins effects ebbing, he grunts out a “huh” while inspecting the table for snacks worth a damn but ends up uncorking a bottle himself. He deserves it — took a knife to the hand — and though it’ll likely heal quick enough with care, it’s a deep, dull throb for now.

“You’ve got someone, right? Tha’ Yennefer person. Whits she like?,” Idrilla asks out of nowhere, likely inspired by the drink.

“Hm? Uh, Long jet black hair. Purple eyes…” Geralt starts off and Idrilla sighs pleasantly, humming “Sounds beautiful.” That puts a small smile on Geralt’s face. “A stubborn know-it-all” he smirks, imagining Yen overhearing him and slapping the back of his head. “Powerful. Driven. Willing to put everything on the line for what she believes in. Contrary. Will probably do something just to prove you wrong.”

“Must be nice.”

“She can fairly infuriating, but she’s worth it. I’ve never felt right around anyone else, if that makes any sense,” he reveals but going beyond his comfort zone, he actually asks “So. You uh.. got your eyes on anyone?”

“Ughhhhh,” she groans and spills some wine, just barely missing Geralt boots, “I think th’ Commander and Solas are both tryin’ ta get my attention. Don’t get me wrong, they’re both pretty, but…”

“Not your type,” he guesses.

“Yyyeah.”

Quiet a couple minutes. She clearly wants to talk but she’s waiting for Geralt to initiate so he takes the hint and asks “So… who is _she_?” hoping he’s right and that this isn’t about him.

She actually sighs, some relief he supposes. “Well no one really…” she starts to say but glances toward the threshold, making sure no one is listening in considering this is Orlais, “..Sera’s cute I guess but she has a weird thing against elves an’ magic so tha’s two strikes right there. Think Josephine was flirting whit me er maybe she’s just tha’ nice ta everyone? Doesn’t really matter anyway... can’t talk ta most cause they can’t look past th’ whole anchor thing so either everyone is being fake whit me cause I’m _the inquisitor.”_ She drops her bottle to puts air quotes on that last bit, the glass clinking as it rolls, “An’ everyone else acts like I’m their Shem god…”

“I... don’t envy you.”

“Don’t need pity. Just a girl who actually cares.”

“It’s not love but you could always just pay a prostitute if you’re in n-“ he starts to say, pragmatic, but she cuts him off, demanding “Geralt. Toss th’ bottle back up ta me. I need ta throw it at you.”

Geralt can’t help but smirk at that, breathing easy, his chuckle a raspy thing in the dark as bards play their strings and woodwinds in the distance…

Feigning a hard edge, trying not to laugh, she says “Oh? You thought I was joking? No. Give it here, by order of yer Inquisitor.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s another long chapter. Enjoy

A uniform burned to the dismay of one Antivan ambassador…

A long lost sorceress found…

An assassination plot foiled…

Now remains the journey West, to find and stop the Orlesian Wardens from summoning a demon army most wicked. Admittedly, Geralt is still a bit vague on the matter but he knows well enough now of demons and their immediate nature. Ready for travel, the morning sun now becoming noon, all but five are aimed for the Western Approach.

Madam de Fer is to stay in Halamshiral, coordinating with Celene as an Inquisition official

Cullen is to lie in wait with the standing army North of a place called the Exalted plains, readying to march. All he requires is a raven to trigger his advances.

Bound back for Skyhold though, Josephine and Leliana’s carriage (along with a contingent of soldiers) is packed and ready to go, the only person holding up the departure, the redhead sorceress from another world. She’s been begging Geralt to let her come along all morning — that even if her spell casting is off since landing Thedas, she’s of use — but Geralt actually urges her go with a “Please.”

The Witcher isn’t the type to beg and Triss knows, better than most anyone.

“Just… gather what you have at the Chalon’s estate,” he advises gently, “Go to Skyhold and figure out how to get us home.”

After a moments pause and a pointed glare, she actually softens and reticently agrees, sighing “Fine, Geralt,” her cornflower blue eyes still attempting to cut to his core. Her tactic doesn’t work, he doesn’t yield. He just stares down his nose at her until she puffs out her cheeks in exhale but ever the hospitable one, Josephine assures “Do not worry, we will ensure her protection and well being.”

“You say that now…” Geralt grumbles while leering at the back of Leliana’s head but Josephine laughs it off, changing topics and saying “My, you are so beautiful, but I bet you hear that all the time!” while taking Triss’ hand.

“Oh? I.. thank you,” Triss politely replies but shoots Geralt another look over her shoulder as they climb into the carriage before the door shuts, whips crack, and they set forth…

But that was hours ago, a whole day spent journeying the Imperial Highway West, and now making camp off the outskirts of Val Foret, just south of the forking rivers, Geralt decides to skip the camaraderie, choosing instead to slink off into the darkening night, to put some distance down and chill with the horses. Their curiosity of him ended the moment he sat down with no offers of salt lick, apples, or a scratch behind the ears, and freeing a small bottle from his pack, uncorking it with his teeth, he takes to drinking alone while propped against his mossy log.

The bandages of his injured hand need to be changed, the dark splotching more a crust than stain at this point.

 _‘Should change the dressing,’_ he notes with chagrin. It’s not that he got stabbed that’s embarrassing, it’s not some worthless point of pride — he’s suffered that plenty — no, it’s the fact that he had had time to act, to do anything to prevent this. Could’ve used aard or yrden. Both would’ve been infinitely more useful back at the palace, but he wasn’t thinking straight.

Not then.

He is now though as he holds the bottle firmly between his teeth and unwinds the strips of cloth. No rot, not by the smell of it, however there’s damage to the small vessels and nerve endings. It’s more numb, like how fire damages flesh but it’s the puckering at the edges of the devastation that actually feel anything. Gotta wonder what kind of poison that was but he doesn’t have much in the way of potions or medical supplies, just a mash of elfroot folded up in parchment, and so he applies a thick coating of that to the gaping puncture with a finger. He’ll heal, no doubt about that, only question is how soon and how ugly will the injury prove to be down the line.

Inquisition voices distantly recount the Winter Ball and its absurdity, who got hit on by whom, what terrible delights they tried, and then Varric derisively laughs out “Bastard publishing house. _My books don’t do well in Orlais?_ Liars, the lot of em.”

“Speaking from experience,” Cassandra mocks him further.

Geralt tunes them out. No need to pay mind to yet another Cassandra and Varric argument. They’re often the same song and dance. Instead, he focuses on his task at literal hand, binding it with spare scraps he tore from the linens back at the hotel.

_Don’t tell Josephine._

_...she probably already knows._

Settling in, examining his freshly bandaged left in the moonlight, he deems it a satisfactory job and hunches down reclaiming his drink, trying to get in a good position and promptly finds it. The horses snort and nicker softly, grazing in relative silence under the cover of night, but some fool soul deigns it necessary to intrude on his alone time, hopping the log and taking a seat. Barely a shift to the timber, her lightness giving her identity away, Geralt hazards a guess, grunting “What do you want Idri?” without glancing up. It’s a cheap guess considering the medallion is humming. Only she seems to radiate magic like that.

“You good?,” she asks. Sounds like genuine concern.

He grunts a nonverbal reply.

“Get th’ feeling people don’t often ask you tha’.”

“People… ask me plenty,” he chooses to say and goes to take a swig but she snatches the bottle — stealing a pull herself — and passes it back, wincing at its bite “But..nngh…not how _yer_ doing,” and wiping her mouth on her exposed shoulder.

“Maybe not, but I am that. Good. Fine.”

He can feel her bright eyes on him, on what he suspects to be his hand.

“It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“I could take a look at it,” she offers but he waves her off with his drinking hand.

“Idiot,” he teases.

“Fool.”

“Damn do-nothing.”

“Too proud for a brothel.”

“Abomination,” she mocks.

“Knife ear,” he growls and the both fall quiet. In fact, the camp on ahead seems to have fallen quiet as well, listening for what presumably sounds like the beginnings of a fight. Instead, Idrilla snorts, just barely suppressing a burst of laughter. Anyone else says that to her and she’d show them how pretty one can look with a slit throat…

_Or as a burning corpse._

…and she knows damn well he’ll shrug off just about anything insult hurled at him.

“Yer a grouchy one,” she smirks but ultimately surprises, “Oh yeah, about yer eyes… you don’t need ta hide em,” addressing something entirely different than expected. Geralt shifts uncomfortably, glaring at the moonlit open fields. Continuing, she adds “Maybe with some of these assholes, but not with me. So they go black sometimes, that’s whit? Because of poison or toxins, right?”

“…Hm.”

“Tha’ a yes? Look, it’s no secret ta me, I saw enough when we were holed up on th’ Storm Coast. Sure, thought it was taint then, but seeing it again last night, it’s yer body’s response ta deadly substances an’ such?”

No answer, Geralt quirks a sideways glance at her.

“Psst, don’t look at me like tha’, I _was_ my clan’s First. Have a bit o’ medical training.”

Still not sure what that exactly entails, Geralt chooses just to grunt out another “Hm.”

“So if you want someone ta take an actual look at tha’ wound… someone who’ll do more than a slap an’ wrap, I mean, you know where I am.

No answer from Geralt, he just sits quietly. He’s not so proud to not accept help but he’d prefer to put this off until tomorrow.

“Fine, fine, I’ll give ya yer space,” she sighs and forces herself to her feet, groaning some in fatigue from having travelled all day. Before she saunters off however, she invites “Look, all shit aside, you’ve heard my offer. An’ here’s another. Ya ever choose ta vent, I’ve got two ears, but whitever, you do you. Just know it’s on th’ table.”

He’ll never cop to it, but he _does_ appreciate her saying that though it certainly helps her case she isn’t some bard trying to find inspiration for another damn song. He just watches her slip through the sparse trees back to camp, back to the glow of safety and firelight with her little green mark waving through the dark like a green firefly...

_Because Cassandra would absolutely hunt her down if she tried to sleep anywhere else…_

_…Power is a leash._

Enough of that now, no more need for rumination this day and no need to prolong the necessary.

One less concern.

Sleep is inevitable

As eyes fall shut, the dark of drifting becoming swirling shapes and those take form, a sprawling labyrinth of a garden maze — it feels familiar — but the painted Orlesian masks peering though the greenery are new.

Running, chasing after something, someone…

Like trying to catch the edges of a flame, it’s just out of reach, flickering, dancing…

_Is someone following me?_

_No…_

_…Only what’s ahead._

_Hunting._

Following a heady scent, the wolf hastens on all fours after a warmth becoming a lingering laugh, drunk and dazed, hurrying ahead but every turn past unfurling flowers, walls in bloom, only the specter of a smile remains. All the world’s a blur and the very air intoxicating, ambrosia, but he spurs onward at the gentle song of “Geraaalt, Geralt” as the skies open and champagne flavored rain gently drizzles.

The masks smile, following him with their lavish but hollow gazes.

“Geralt? Geraaaaaaalt,” indistinct voices sing with ethereal notes and he comes stumbling into a clearing, the middle of the maze, a grand fountain the focus. People dancing, mere after images, ignoring and ignored, and no sooner does he look away do they change, the many couples becoming stone, ornamentation for the lavish, for the hedges...

And every one a tasteful nude, their stonework darkening with the patter of rain…

 _‘Wait,’_ Geralt labors to breathe, his pulse quickening, the statues are all Triss, each and every one, cloying and alluring, and he tries to push forward but there’s just so many, so much of her. He needs to find her but this is more than he set out for but before thoughts can go murky, muddled, mired, on the white marble fountain ledge, taunting the placid waters with her presence, the real Triss dances, twirling barefoot. A misplaced step, she falls into Geralt’s arms and looking up at him, lifting his wolf mask he didn’t even realize he was wearing, her chest heaves as she purrs “Oh, Geralt.”

Red and white…

Lips crush together, a stirring in the deep, alluring, need, more and more, painted fingernails raking through his hair…

“But that isn’t what happened…” a familiar voice cuts through the haze and Geralt abruptly awakens with a growl in his throat, wincing at the twin moons glaring down at him overhead like giant eyes. “Sorry… You weren’t happy. Not really,” Cole whispers from nearby, watching the sky above as well.

“Eghh,” the Witcher groans, readjusting himself, confused, “Just a damn dream, Cole.”

“If you push too hard, the dreams become too real, a forest of question, wandering, wondering, what could’ve beens until you’re lost… Don’t get lost.”

“…uh…won’t?,” he grunts in reassurance but Cass’ voice comes seething “I JUST GOT TO SLEEP! BOTH OF YOU, QUIET!” from the dark.

“Thank you,” Cole utters regardless, his pale face now hidden beneath the oversized brim of his leather hat before it slowly fades into the dark, akin to a Cheshire Cat.

“Mhmm,” Geralt growls, trying to shrug off whatever this was. The kid — for all his vague riddling — could be right but Geralt’s no oneiromancer. He can’t decipher the importance of dreams himself and for now, he doesn’t feel the need to...

That one felt pretty obvious — he’s horny. He just located his ally. The two aren’t related matters and needless to say, it wasn’t grounded in fact, in reality, that’s not what happened at the Vegelbud estate.

No need to wonder the why.

With a grumbling sigh, he picks himself up and goes off to relieve whomever’s on watch. No reason not to.

He’s up now…

*****

Sun beating down upon dusty plains, the lush greens of previous days giving way to sand and rock, Geralt marches back to camp with a slight limp in his step, this old knee injury acting up. “Damn you stink,” he grumbles with a pocket of eggs and dragging some manner of upright feathered lizard behind him, the kill just absolutely reeking of sulfur — as he comes stomping around a cliff and back into what should be a clean camp however, he only finds a massacre.

Some tents trampled to the dirt, others torn to shreds…

Blood and guts strewn across the sparse grass in fearsome spurts and sprays…

Corpses of red crystal pocked knights littering the area with mana burns, arrows and bolts, and gruesome stabs and slash marks…

Bull, tearing his battle axe from the skull of a dead man, a grin of almost sexual release plastered to his angled face, the big guy laughs out “YOU MISSED THE ACTION!” as Geralt tosses his venison toward the dashed and kicked remains of the fire, disinterested in expression.

_Couldn’t smell the char and blood over this thing’s odor…_

“Rest assured,” Dorian grouses while smoothing out his robes, “You didn’t miss much,” with what appears to be a Templar shade at his side slowly dissolving into the ether. Cassandra, Sera, and Cole seem less than comfortable with that, keeping their distance while leering at the specter and mustached mage.

“Look, so long as no one touched the damn rocks, we’re good,” Varric stresses, already pondering how to destroy the corpses permanently, but Sera just fires off “Pfft, as if. So who’s starting the bonfire? Not it!” only then to notice what Geralt’s haul is and shivers out a “Ewwhewhewhew, not eating that!” in disgust.

Grunting with indifference, Geralt crouches down beside his kill, drawing a curved knife and casually starts flaying the reptilian beast as if nothing else matters. Really, it doesn’t. He’s hungry, the apparent attack has already been dealt with, the former taking priority. Besides, even if one were to ignore the distance yet travelled, the old man hasn’t gotten much sleep the past few nights — that damnable Triss dream keeps repeating itself like some half-whispered cursed tune…

Needless to say, the Witcher is feeling less than amenable these days.

“You could help dispose of the bodies,” Cassandra nags but Geralt grunts back with equal pettiness, “Don’t think I will.” True, only Geralt and Cassandra seem to exhibit any snort of resistance to the red rocks — so long as he doesn’t ingest one, he should be fine — and truer still this means they’re the best suited to handling the corrupted dead.

…but not right now.

Not before breakfast.

“We cannot just leave these in the open! No one knows for certain every threat these crystals pose and as the Inquisition, we should not leave anything so dangerous to chance,” Cassandra won’t stop, already grabbing the wrist of a corpse and starting to pull, “Get up and _help.”_

He pays the command no mind.

Just watching the flames lick at the cuts of meat, raw and purpled browning at the edges. Delicious smoke curls, wafting, just barely matching the stink of sulfur. For safe measure, this one’ll cook until charred black, no sense unnecessarily testing a constitution with foreign meat, especially one so ripe…

“Geralt!”

Juices hiss on hot sand and stone as he turns the spit…

“Witcher,” Cassandra growls at him, audibly pissed.

‘ _Almost there,_ ’ he notes of the lizard haunch roasting, actually going so far as to lick his chapped lips in hungry anticipation…

*****

“…and then there’s this old fortress — really pointy — on a cliff but we’re pretty sure it’s occupied with Venatori,” Scout Harding flows through her briefing but while the others are mostly paying attention, Geralt’s just letting his eyes adjust. Should listen but he hasn’t slept in days and this blinding sun isn’t doing him any favors. Idrilla keeps sneaking glances at him, trying to appear focused on Harding’s report — trying to get his attention as he sips from a water skin — but he’s not having it. He can hear just fine from here. But something rides the wind and Harding pauses to say “Quiet a moment” and but a moment later, an enormous red dragon tears through the sky above, its vast shadow whipping over them all and with its departure, the Dwarven scout continues on with “I should also point out there’s darkspawn but we haven’t figured out where they’re coming from yet” like it’s no big deal but Bull almost giddy, he bursts out “Tell me we’re fighting that, boss! Tell me we are!!!”

“Aaaaaanyway,” Harding presses on, “Reconnaissance has found abandoned caravans ahead, roving packs of hyenas, rifts, and then of course, there’s evidence of other Venatori activity near some old temple. I swear, they pop up like villainous Tevinter weeds” but noting Dorian, she coughs “Ahem, present company excluded.”

“Please, no need to walk on eggshells. I’m well aware I’m not a weed, but a glorious-,” Dorian tries to self-aggrandize but Blackwall interrupts “And the Grey Wardens?”

“Yeah, none yet. Sorry.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing. May…maybe the rest are safe?,” Blackwall mutters mostly to himself, hopeful of an outcome that’s increasingly unlikely.

“Then why are we still standing around?!,” Bull demands, almost pissed, “There’s the mission and plenty of great things to kill along the way!” and the briefing seems to find a forced end with that, the group dispersing, some wandering up ahead to gaze through the dessert pass, others taking the time to study the maps, but a certain opportunistic elf has her own agenda. “So hey you,” Sera beams at the little scout and Harding, bashful it’d seem, she almost smirks back “Oh, hey Miss Sera.”

“Pffft, Miss? Of course you’d miss me,” the choppy haired elf quips, “I’m all fun, yeah?” and going pink in the ears, trying not to be obvious, Harding comments “Well, y-yeah, of c-“ but the Witcher intends to give them their privacy. Doesn’t need to listen in on everything. Rising with a tired grunt, flexing his hand and giving his leg a stretch, he moves with intent to the maps table to give them a once over and as Inquisitor Idrilla does the same, he grunts “So…”

“I heard,” she sighs just a bit irritably.

“They seem… friendly.”

“Kindly fuck yerself with a spoon.”

Geralt’s face twists into an ugly half smile, his yellow cat eyes locking onto hers and he chuckle-growls “Don’t own a spoon” while Cassandra is left silently pondering both with a scowl, ever unsure of the Witcher and Inquisitor and how they could possibly be sane.

*****

“C’mon!,” the Iron Bull impatiently paces at the edge of this fresh camp on a rise, “There’s a dragon! Out there! If we don’t get it, those White Claw jackoffs _will!”_ and throws his thick finger toward the Southern valley laden with sand swallowed pillars and a score of local gang members planting their traps. “You’ve gotta let me do this, Boss,” Bull dances in place while white knuckling his battle axe, almost squirming like he has to piss.

“Give it a rest,” Cassandra complains while keeping her eyes on an ancient ritual site built off the edge the landscape, off a sheer cliff, “We aren’t here for dragons. We are lying in wait for when someone shows up.”

“We can do both!”

“Inquisitor!,” Cassandra demands Idrilla step in to settle this matter but the elf is in less pleasant spirits than anyone else, fanning herself, sweating and squinting as the sun bares down on them all. “Inquisitor?,” Cassandra questions, seeking the elf’s attention.

“Whit?”

“Tell Bull we can’t f-“

“Fuck it,” the Elven Inquisitor snaps back, “Anyone tha’ wants ta go, go. Just stop talking. I’m hot, sore, shut up.”

Unfortunately, before he can even consider what he wants, the choice is made for Geralt as Bull wraps a muscled arm about his shoulders and hauls the Witcher’s ass along for the ride, down into the valley of sands with Sera following behind, already selecting arrows to sic at the damn White Claws.

One. Two. A pair drop dead. Three. Four. Another whistling couple for their heads, pointed shafts finding their marks and Bull charges in, finally letting Geralt go. But it’s too late — he’s part of this now — and so he begrudgingly joins the battle-hungry Qunari and mad Elf. It’s no difficult task, slashing, parrying, stabbing these ingrates. They’ve probably never had a real challenge to contend with out here and the swiftness with which the three butcher the many is only further evidence of such.

Sixteen dead.

Sand sucking up their draining life blood.

Small lizards skitter across hot rocks, creeping out now that the sounds of battle have subsided.

Their traps left unset.

But the hackles on the back of the Witcher’s neck stand in alarm before _it_ even announces itself and he takes off running ahead, barking at the others “GET TO COVER” just before an ear-splitting warble cuts the desert sky and the beating of enormous leathered wings thunder off the rocky outcroppings. “Oh shit yes here she comes,” Geralt hears Bull roar out, the Qunari’s “excitement” tenting in his baggy breeches. 

“AwWWWwww,” Sera gawks at the giant fire breather from behind a boulder as it hop-skips off the ruins, talons raking the stone and sand and her powerful tail wrecking the rest, and promptly chomps down on a White Claw corpse, “This is gunna be good.” The other two are craving an epic fight but Geralt’s furiously scanning the setting from behind his own downed pillar…

There’s no sign of a nest, no eggs. 

Thus far, she hasn’t attacked, just been clumsily knocking rocks.

Snacking on the dead.

This may the most foolishly suicidal thing he’s done yet, but he steps out, making it obvious when he tosses his swords to the ground, the glint and motion catching the Dragon’s attention as he approaches calmly, open hands at his sides….

A surrender to her.

“Oh, whats the crazy bastard up to now??,” he can hear Bull ask and Sera reply “Pfft, definitely loony” with the string of her bow creaking taut.

_Don’t do it._

The creature snorts, dust and sand whirling in the gust.

“You… are… intelligent,” Geralt starts off with, trying to enunciate as clearly as he can, “I’ve no… interest.. in fighting an _intelligent_ creature.”

A sharp snap of its powerful jaws, its neck revealing the swallowed outline of a corpse snaking down the esophagus, the dragon then sharply exhales, warbling and increasing the air temperatures by twenty degrees. Hotter than hot, sweat quickly beading on his brow, much better suited for the cold, Geralt actually states “This doesn’t need to end with blood.” Lumbering closer, sniffing at the air as its tail uproots an ages old pillar, it comes to investigate the odd little man.

_Don’t use magic._

_Don’t attack. T_ _his doesn’t need to end in violence._

He actually drops down on one knee, bowing his head just enough to show respect and now towering over the Witcher, the scaled monster leans in, craning its head down to his level. Sniffing at him, tasting his words. The dragon tilts to look him in the eyes, its own slitted ones blinking once.

“Please fly somewhere safer, where you can live uninterrupted,” Geralt hazard to implore, “Please. Live” and it seems to look past him…

_Shit. What are they doing back there?_

But nothing happens, no crushing death, no blood and fire, just a heavy snort, nearly blowing the Witcher off his feet, the big creature snaps up a nearby dead and flaps its enormous wings, taking to the sky, flying off to the Western horizon, over the blighted sands of ages past.

“Wait. W-what? Where’s the mayhem?! It’s just flying away!,” Bull confusedly protests, slumping in disappointment with his axe dropping to the sands and sun baked earth.

“How in th’…whit even was... just how??!” Idrilla rambles with both arms thrown forward to grasp at nothing, “how? How. How??” She must’ve hurried over when the dragon first landed.

“Hm. Good. Means she didn’t have a nest nearby,” Geralt sighs in deep relief, hesitantly getting up.

_Didn’t think that’d work._

“Heez crazy right?? Sera asks, “Bit cracked in the head.”

“A race to the top, too many swords, it was a trick but a good one. Three eyes and golden but he only had two. You helped him save his daughter…” Cole utters in a hush as if he was there the whole time, his pale eyes seeing through the world, “Dragons are people?”

“Sometimes.”

“But they can’t hold with their hands?”

“Hm. Not that time.”

Blackwall, evidently having run down with Idrilla, he demands “What in the Maker’s asshole are you two blathering on about??”

“Doesn’t matter,” Geralt answers but Cole specifies “It _did_ matter. It still matters.”

“Yeah,” Blackwall scratches at his beard, “I’m just as confused as I was a minute ago.”

But in the debris knocked about by the dragon, there lays a rusted sword in the shadow of a dune, a griffin insignia just barely shining through the grit. Noting the mark of the Grey Wardens, Geralt grunts “Blackwall” while snatching it from the sand and tosses it to the man.

Catching it, confused, but recognizing it, he utters a “Why would?”

“For your collection.”

“How did y… No, Doesn’t matter how. You have my thanks.”

“But how did you do tha’? It just flew off!?,” Inquisitor Idrilla hurls the question again, still staggered by the act, “Did you trick it? Do tha’ axii thing? Feed it?”

The Witcher sighs.

“Fer real! How?!”

  
*****

Sand.

Uneven footing.

There’s been movement by the ritual site.

First several, now a pair seemingly stalking the first and now’s the time to make the approach…

“Good, you made it,” says that same scruffy rogue Geralt met on Skyhold’s walls as they climb over a sand dune to the mouth of the ancient site. A touch more sunburn, a little more tired around the eyes, he’s ultimately the same, that is until he spots Cassandra struggling to form words, actually blushing, seemingly star struck.

 _Or suffering a heat stroke. Flip a coin._

Hawke, strutting right past the Inquisitor, ignoring both her and Geralt, he bows and takes the Seeker’s hand, kissing at her knuckles before smoothly commenting “So, Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast... Varric warned me you were _seeking_ me” and her cheeks burn all the more. With a wink, he adds “I must say, he painted a pale portrait compared to the real thing.”

Okay, this is definitely not the same Hawke Geralt met on the wall. This person is playing at being a Casanova. Not at all the odd duck of a man from before.

“I’m terribly sorry we couldn’t meet in Crestwood, that I could only meet your Inquisitor and everything had to be so hush hush…”

“It.. I… oh! Think nothing of it! The Wardens _were_ hunting for your… friend,” she replies, looking past Hawke for a moment to the wizened, dark haired Warden standing in the shade cast by the ancient pillars of the ritual site entrance. She seems to recognize him but it could just be Geralt’s imagination.

“I will think _plenty_ of it,” the roguish mage beams innocently though his words imply anything but.

“Y-you… your. But. You and Isabela!,” Cassandra manages to stammer-blurt, exasperation creeping into her face, but Hawke fires back, just about dropping his eloquent charade “Have you met her? Trust me, she’d think plenty about you as well. Strong, beautiful, a need to let loose, and did I mention strong? Yeah, she’d love to hook her tantalizing claws in you.”

Oh. That did it. Cass rolls her eyes, scoffing her hardest yet, but be that as it may, it does nothing to detract from her blush. Can’t help that. And to that, Geralt almost feels a chuckle coming on.

Almost.

But finally, a saner mind clears his throat — the wizened stranger — and he cocks his head back at the site.

“Oh, shit, right, _that,_ almost forgot,” Hawke realizes and yanks his lance-staff from the dry earth, absently thumbing an old scar across the bridge of his hard angled nose before creeping up the well worn steps. Keeping to what little shadows remain, the blistering sun high overhead, the roguish mage waves the small group on after him as he makes his quiet approach of whatever ritual is happening further ahead to a stand-alone outcropping of stone, the lonely point standing stall from the chasm below…

And this Loghain sighs most wearily. Pulling free a mighty broadsword, the man tosses the leather sheath to the sand and stone and takes up the weapon with two hands. Evidently not a show-off, this _real_ Warden merely holds the blade at the ready. No bullshit arcing or twirling. Just ready.

A malevolent light show muted only by the grace of high noon, it’s only now the dusty gales aren’t drowning out a warden’s cries, his shouting “No, I take it back. This is wrong!” but some robed weasel of a man on a raised platform sneers “You forget yourself. This is _your_ duty, Commander Clarel’s orders were clear” and several other wardens, their faces empty of emotion, they descend, grabbing the crying one and forcing a dagger into his hand, physically plying him to cut a willing other, to bleed them dry. Though he shouts through tears and panicked breathe, they shove and push until the blade is buried and now-a-killer’s eyes go red.

Just a moment.

Red and gone.

As does all the panic from just a second ago, an eerie calm taking him as the other warden falls dead at his feet, the ground frosting and crackling until a Fear shatters through the now frozen corpse, locking its empty hood with the possessed.

…Though perhaps there’s some correlation to the subtle hand twist the odd mage ahead just did, the red light in his palm timely perfectly as he sneers “…How’s it go? Ah, yes. In Death, Sacrifice.”   
Seeing he has uninvited guests, however, he comments “Inquisitor? What an unexpected pleasure” and announcing himself with a lively flourish and bow, he tacks on “Lord Livius Erimond of Vyrantium, at your service!” however, before Idrilla can give reply, Loghain spits “You’re no Warden” with hard eyes.

“Oh, it’s you, the one that got away,” this Erimond deduces, “You found the Inquisitor and came to stop me. Is that about right? Shall we see how that goes?” It’s a warning, a threat, he knows something more than he’s letting on.

“So… too late fer them,” the Inquisitor says as fact, calmly eyeing the Wardens and their Demon partners, “They can’t even hear me, can they?”

“That’s quite astute of you, Inquisitor,” the Erimond gives praise, less than a hint of a sneer in it, “Let’s put it to the test” and with a twist of his hand, more of that Coryphean red growling between his fingers, he commands “Wardens! Hands… up!” and they mimic him, following orders to the letter. “And hands… down,” he shortly thereafter barks, smiling unevenly as he does.

“So Corypheus has taken their minds, eh?,” Loghain figures and with a sniff, clearing his nostrils of dust and sand, he raises his broadsword but Erimond sighs out “They did this to themselves. I didn’t force them into it. You see, the Calling had your Order terrified so they looked everywhere for answers…”

“Even Tevinter,” the tired Warden Loghain concludes.

“Yes, and since it _was_ my Master planting the Calling into their little heads…” the little Lord begins to monologue but Loghain won’t give him that, instead cutting him off, stating “Where you and your Venatori cult were prepared, waiting.”

As this exchange between friend and foe continues, Geralt and Hawke lurk in the back, ensuring nothing tries to flank them, but noting how many demons are on deck, the Witcher says in a hush “You should go support them.”

“Well yes,” Erimond continues, clearly proud of his schemes, unaware of the Champion and Witcher at the entrance, “I went to Clarel full of sympathy and _together_ we came up with a plan…”

“You really think I should?,” Hawke whispers back to Geralt and the old man nods. With a shrug, the younger creeps up the stairs, staying low and slow as Erimond goes on to say “…Demon army, march into the Deep Roads, and kill the Old Gods before they wake.”

Nothing behind, nothing far, just a chasm and sand and more sand followed by sand but Geralt does overhear Idrilla comment “Oh, yeah. Was waitin’ for tha’ army to finally enter th’ story.” Can’t see the little lord’s face from here but his tone paints a vivid enough picture as he questions “Uh…oh? You… you knew about that?”

“Mhm,” she hums, already growing bored by the sound of it.

 _Crazy elf_.

“…test and once all the Wardens complete the ritual, the army _will_ conquer Thedas,” Erimond states, continuing — quite foolishly — to give away the true plan.

“Will Corypheus even care if yer dead? Don’t mean offense by it, just honestly asking,” Idrilla implores.

“Is that a threat? Because _He_ gave me the means of stopping you!”

“That dumb red shit in yer ha-“ she starts to ask but a thrumming a power, the wolf necklace vibrating, a magic matching her own unfurling, too quick to react, but red light explodes and the sound of electricity arcing whines out. But even quicker, a second energy flares and the Lord screeches, cursing “NO! DAMN YOU! KILL THEM ALLLLL” before battle sparks up. Demons roar and cry, magic and metal singing in attack, but still Geralt holds back, something in his guts telling him right here is just fine. A huffing, a heaving from around the corner, the bleeding mage hurries, fleeing around the outer walls of the ritual site, running right toward the unnoticed Witcher and into a swift cold-cock of a gloved fist.

Down.

He.

Drops.

Like a twenty pound bag of flour, he hits the hard sun-scorched ground with a solid thud. Funny thing, he’s missing a few fingers on that glowing wrong hand of his, the injury fresh, likely the reason for that screech he gave. Perfect. Grabbing his ankle, towing the unconscious Erimond, Geralt calmly trudges to the others just as Idrilla drives her thin dagger into the neck of a possessed. God damn brutal. The remaining few Wardens — their demons dead — they come shambling toward her, seemingly ignoring The Champion, Fugitive Warden, and Seeker. Strange, it almost as if she’s personally affecting them. Then again, her mark may be exerting exactly that, an interference signal. Whatever the case, it’s the perfect opening and the other three take it, removing the heads of two possessed as the third collapses, all the blood forcefully exiting the now-corpse..

The first words spoken, Loghain sighs out a tired “…A younger me would be thrilled by this,” scanning the dead Orlesian Wardens, “…but now, I’ve learned the lesson the Warden Amell set out to teach me” but the poignancy of the moment is ruined when Hawke stomps about, boots sloshing through pooling blood and demon ichor, the blade of his staff scraping the old stonework, complaining “Maker’s dick! Blood magic? Why is it _always_ blood magic?!” but the tired Loghain sighs out “…Hawke, you yourself just performed blood magic.”

“Pfft, no I didn’t!”

“It’s not as if I care but I literally just watched you do so.”

“But not like them!,” Hawke argues and Cassandra, struggling to fathom this apparent development, she stresses, “You… are a… a blood mage?”

“…errrrmmm, I…yes?,” he almost flippantly confirms.

“But you _are_ the Champion of Kirkwall!”

“Also yes.”

“But blood magic,” she continues to puzzle, crestfallen.

“That a…question or a statement?”

“After everything that took place,” she angrily questions, demands, “How can you choose to use blood magic?” but Hawke raises a finger, actually defending “Eh, it’s not the same. I mean, tell me a better way to stop blood magic than using blood magic? Sounds contradictory, sure, but what I do is usually just screwing up whatever casting someone else is trying for. And it works. And I’m not guzzling lyrium to do do it. I mean, I _know_ what happens to Templars that get too far gone on the stuff…”

“But what about demons and—“

“No. no. Hold on. That’s not.. That warning is a half truth. The reality is that you use blood, you get lightheaded, woozy, and then theoretically yes, a demon could ask for whatever and you’d be more likely to agree to their request because of the aforementioned disorientation. Trick is, train yourself to say no, always saying no, never don’t say no, and the demons can’t hitch a ride. Easy peasy cheesy.”

To that, Cassandra glowers, not sure what to trust here.

“Yep,” Hawke congratulates himself but reminds, “Anyway, shall we?”

Cass looks like she wants to ask more but can’t find her voice, tripping over her own processing.

“So it definitely helps to not think about it too hard. Heh, my brother would tell you that’s my life motto and he… Uh, shit, yes, he’d be right. Damn it,” Hawke realizes and walks a bit faster.

Annoyed this even merits saying, Geralt growls dismissively “Magic is magic. Neither evil nor good. All that matters is intent and outcome” and though Hawke nods appreciatively, Cassandra grumbles “Maybe where you’re from…” not quite under her breath. Hard to tell if that’s her official stance on the matter or if everything has simply been overcast by this Champion revelation.

Suppose it doesn’t matter.

“Wait? Geralt, you caught him?,” Cassandra seems to perk up, noticing now the man dragged at the Witcher’s heels.

“Mhm. But where was he going?,” Geralt growls in question and Loghain posits “In all likelihood, he’ll be making his way to Adamant Fortress. It’s an ancient Grey Warden structure to the North East. Hawke and I should advance ahead, keep on this Erimond’s trail and relay back with confirmation.”

Idrilla though, she states what should be obvious “Or can just interrogate him. Get proof? I mean, we’ve got a Qunari an’ a Seeker. Makes sense to use em.”

With a half grimace, half smirk, the old Warden agrees and apologizes “That does make a great deal of sense. Sorry the idea didn’t come to me — I must be dehydrated from all this damn sun. Where shall we do this?”

“My people should have tha’ Griffin Keep fort taken by now.”

“Ah, good,” Loghain breathes easy.

“Perfect,” the Champion nods.

“Ugh, yes. Perfect,” Cassandra begrudgingly agrees, trying to look anywhere Hawke isn’t.

At that, both everyone seems to go quiet — talking further is unnecessary and no one wants to fill the air with idle blathering — and they just start walking, Erimond’s head dragging the loudest sound around. In that quiet though, Geralt has a passing thought, a glimmer of concern, and he glances ahead at the Inquisitor.

She’s quiet just like the rest.

Decidedly so.

But her eyes look…

 _Sullen? Perturbed_?

Geralt can’t put his finger on it. Then again, maybe it’s just the situation that has her like this. End of the world scenario, demon army in the works, human sacrifice, yeah, that shit’ll get to most people. Kinda hard to shake that shit.

Hopefully it’s just that.

Probably just that.

*****

A fortress on a cliff overlooking a vast swath of tainted nothing, its enormous metal spines and spikes a perfect defense from whatever it foolish enough to attack on the on side that matters and even that is naught but desert. Temperatures swiftly dropping as day becomes night, the blazing orange sun falls behind what are likely mountains on the distant Western horizon. Venatori corpses lay piled high and ready for burning come early morning.

“And so we’re shimmying up this rotted rope, climbing to a well mouth, and the whole time I’m thinking _shit, I’m going to be a sitting duck. A sitting duck full of magic holes and arrows and knives,”_ Blackwall recounts of how they took the place, the lot of them sitting around in the highest level of Griffin Keep, “I poke my head out, expecting the worst, but there’s Cole, not a drop of blood on him and every damn Venatori in the courtyard is dead where they stand. Downright eerie but I’ll take it over losing my head.”

“It’s a good head,” Cole quietly agrees.

“Uh, thank you... Cole.”

Then Sera chimes in, saying “Anyway, it was all easy smash and stab going forward, yeah. Got their boss real good before he even knew wut was hitting him” and dips down to grab some hyena kebab at the fire’s edge and with a mouthful, “Cuh we’ha zha bast.”

“Sera, please chew and swallow,” Blackwall urges and she deigns to gnash her teeth with a mad grin, letting the meat juice drip down her chin in a gross mocking display. “Alright, fair enough,” the Warden sighs in concession.

Can’t tell Sera what to do. No one can.

Elsewhere, there’s the small pops and burst of magic, audible evidence of Solas and Dorian both trying to teach Idrilla more in the way of that, trying to impress upon her a need to expand her portfolio of spells.

Loghain is off staring off the fort’s highest point into the dark, a deep and tired frown etched into his face. Over the past few minutes, he’s started humming some discordant little tune but his fingers move to scratch the back of his neck and only then does he stop. No melody, no itch, as if he’s reminded himself of something…

Varric talking in low tones with Hawke, the former passing a letter to the latter…

Then there’s Cassandra leaning against a sandblasted wall near a closed door. Hard eyes. Frustration in her rigid shoulders. She’d had her turn, her time with the captive mage but Erimond had evidently given nothing up and currently, The Iron Bull is behind that door, taking _his_ turn.

She can clearly hear what’s going on.

We’re it not for his mutations, Geralt would be as oblivious as the others. Down those long stairs, screeches lurk behind that sturdy wooden door, panicked breaths rife with curses and after a half hour of that, it fades to a whimpering quiet and the big guy slips out. “So… ol’ Loghain was right, the Wardens _are_ gathering at Adamant,” Bull rumbles low, wiping smudges of blood from his fingers and face.

“What did you do?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Tell m-“

“Trust me.”

“But how do you know?,” she seems unsettled, her roles in interrogation more of a fact checking nature in the past, less _this._

“…Because if you poke or cut the right way, even loyalty breaks. His _did_ ,” Bull answers low enough that no others _should_ hear but he glances up — it’s only a second — at Geralt, assuming correctly that the Witcher can hear. “He just wants to die now. I could leave it to the Boss but give me the word and I’ll finish the vint.”

She seems to consider it.

Shifting about uncomfortably…

“I… shouldn’t make that call. As loathe as I am to say it, who knows if we may have need of him later.”

“Huh. You’d make a good Qunari.”

“That’s not exactly the compliment you think it is.”

“Hmm. Either way… if you’re going to contact Cullen, you should send that bird now. We’re gonna want that army backing us when we get to Adamant.”


End file.
